HE  PILGRIMAGE 


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01 


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THE  Liniuin 

u          FOKMA 

J-OS  AISGKLKb 


THE    PILGRIMAGE 


THE  PILGRIMAGE 

BY 

YONF  NOGUCHI 

AUTHOR    OF 

"  FKOM  THE  EASTERN  SEA  "  ETC. 


NEW  YORK 
MITCHELL  KENNERLEY 

LONDON 

ELKIN  MATHEWS 

MCMXII 


THE  KYOBUNKWAN  PRESS 
Ginza,  Tokyo 


To    LEONIK 


617 


THE    PILGRIMAGE 
PART  I 


CONTENTS 

PA  UK 

"The  New  Arl"    - 

Ghost .....4 

By  the  Engakuji  Temple:     Moon  Night      -----  5 

The  Violet      --- 7 

To  a  Nightingale 10 

I  am  Like  a  Leaf          __--.-__-]>.; 

To  the  Sunflower ...  13 

By  the  Daibutsu  at  Kamakura      -                                            -        -  14 

Shadow  -  1<; 

The  Lotus -                         -        _  is 

Ghrct  of  Abyss -  20 

Song  in  Air   ------.'----21 

The  Fantastic  Snow-Flakes    -                                                      -        -  22 

M.  A.  C.         -  24 

Meditation  on  a  Chinese  Tea  Cup        ------  26 

The  -Poet  29 

Zephyr    -  31 

Fantasia  H2 

At  the  Yuigahama  Shore  by  Ksunakura        -----  34 

Autumn  Song          __-.-____-  :^5 

The  Address  of  a  Woman  to  Her  Hiinband  30 

The  Temple  Bell    -  41 

To  the  Cicada  42 

The  Lady  of  UtamaiVs  Art  44 

The  Buddha  Priest  in  Meditation  45 

In  the  Inland  Sea           ._-.-----  47 


FAOK 

49 
51 


viii 

Little  Fairy    - 

()  Yoshi  San  ------ 

Bird  of  Silence       - 
My  Soul  and  Harp 

Kyoto .--- 

Song's  Way     ------ 

My  Little  Bird 

Oh.  My  Long  Sorrow 

The  Night  Koto  Player 

The  Calling  Cry     -------- 

'Shinnen  Omedeto" 

Her  Weapons  are  a  Smile  and  a  Little  Fan        - 

The  Passing  of  Summer         ------- 


PROEM 


Beckoned  by  an  appointed  hand,  unseen  yet  sure,  in  holy  air, 

We  wander  as  a  wind,  silver  and  free, 

With  one  song  in  heart,  we,  the  children  of  prayer. 

Our  song  is  not  of  a  city's  fall ; 
No  laughter  of  a  kingdom  bids  our  feet  wait ; 
Our  heart  is  away,  with  sun,  wind  and  rain : 
We,  the  shadowy  roamers  on  the  holy  highway. 


"THE  NEW  ART" 

She  is  an  art  (let  me  call  her  so) 

Hung,  as  a  web,  in  the  air  of  perfume, 

Soft  yet  vivid,  she  sways  in  music : 

(But  what  sadness  in  her  saturation  of  life  !) 

Her  music  lives  in  intensity  of  a  moment  and  then  dies'; 

To  her,  suggestion  is  her  life. 

She  left  behind  the  quest  of  beauty  and  dream  : 

Is  her  own  self  not  the  song  of  dream  and  beaut}*  itself? 

(I  know  she  is  tired  of  ideal  and  problem  and  talk.) 

She  is  the  moth-light  playing  on  reality's  dusk, 

Soon  to  die  as  a  savage  prey  of  the  moment ; 

She  is  a  creation  of  surprise  (let  me  say  so), 

Dancing  gold  on  the  wire  of  impulse. 

What  an  elf  of  light  and  shadow  ! 

What  a  flash  of  tragedy  and  beauty ! 


GHOST 

By  the  very  way  she  shook  her  hair 

That  troubled  her  eyes  to  look  the  road  of  wind, 

(She  shook  her  hair  as  a  tree  the  dead  leaves  of  thoughts,) 

Lord — a— mercy     ....     I  know  her  well, 

She  was  my  old  love,  though  when  she    began  to  be   I 

forget. 

(The  dead  thoughts  of  leaves  of  a  tree  flap  and  flap.) 
In  her  whisper,  silver  and  slow  as  that  of  a  stream, 
I  hear  something  akin,  that  I  dare  not  forget,  though  I 

know  not  what, 

("  O  the  ghost  of  the  age  and  midnight,"  I  exclaimed  : 
At  this  minute  the  clock  struck  one     .     .     .     ) 
She  whispers  as  a  stream  with  the  old  music  of  beliefs. 
(The  old  beliefs  of  music  of  a  stream  run  and  run.) 


BY  THE  ENGAKUJI  TEMPLE :     MOON  NIGHT 

Through  the  breath  of  perfume, 
(O  music  of  musics  !) 
Down  creeps  the  moon 
To  fill  my  cup  of  song 
With  memory's  wine. 

Across  the  song  of  night  and  moon, 

(O  perfume  of  perfumes  !) 

My  soul,  as  a  wind 

Whose  heart's  too  full  to  sing, 

Only  roams  astray     .     .     . 

Down  the  tide  of  the  sweet  night 
(O  the  ecstasy's  gentle  rise  !) 


BY   THE   ENGAKUJI    TEMPLE:    MOON    NIGHT 

The  birds,  flowers  and  trees 
Are  glad  at  once  to  fall 
Into  Oblivion's  ruin  white. 


THE  VIOLET 

On  one  night, 

When  breezes  and  mists  were  grey  with  one  sad  memory 

(The  stars  had  lost  their  way  to  their  posts) 

I  stood  upon  the  street : 

I  felt  as  I  were  older  than  a  star. 

I  watched  the  people  passing  by. 

Phantoms  were  they  not  ? 

Were  they  not  part  of  the  ashen  air  ? 

1  thought  they  were  more  glad  to  disappear  than  to  exist : 

They  were  no  more  distinct  than  their    shadows   on   the 

ground. 

Some  tempting  odour  as  from  a  happy  dale 
Made  them  bend  forward  with  hurrying  step. 


THE    VIOLET 

I  watched  them  for  many  an  hour  : 

Suddenly  a  girl's  shape  caught  my  eyes. 

"  Thou  art  my  lover  lost,"  I  cried. 

How  well  I  remembered  her  slightly  turned  face 

Like  a  flower  in  rapture  with  God's  bliss  ! 

'  T  was  her  old  manner  to  show  her  ankles  small, 

Her  dress  flapping  like  her  own  heart. 

Her  tassels  of  hair  hung  as  of  yore, 

Like  whispering  grasses  on  the  sky-road. 

I  rushed  forth  :     "  My  O  Yen,  my  beloved  !" 

0  Yen  San  was  my  old  lover  lost, 

1  knew  not  how  long  ago,— 

Surely  it  was  in  another  happier  world ! 

Alas,  she  vanished. 

In  vain  I  ran  after  her. 

Only  a  bunch  of  violets  was  left  behind  ; 


THE   VIOLET    ' 

The  soul  of  the  flower  was  O  Yen's  soul. 

A  violet,  dear  one  fed  by  gossamer  and  shower, 

In  the  bosom  of  light  and  wind  ! 

'  T  was  many  a  year  ago  I  bade  thee  farewell, 

Leaving  the  path  of  beauty  and  love, 

To  wander  towards  city  and  dust, 

Tell  me,  Violet,  does  O  Yen  love  me  no  more  ? 

Pray,  open  thy  soul  of  Spring  and  smile, 

Let  me  dream  awhile  upon  my  sweet  past ! 

So,  my  soul  smitten  by  noise  and  storm, 

Is  like  a  dead  leaf  on  the  stream  to  the  Unseea 


1O 


TO  A  NIGHTINGALE 

Creator  of  the  only  one  song  ! 

Triumph,  rapture  and  art  thou  tellest 

But  with  thy  self-same  word,  what  mystery ! 

I've  a  few  more  songs  and  dreams  than  thou, 

(Alas,  my  words  not  serving  at  my  command  !) 

I  tremble,  hesitate  before  I  sing : 

What  carelessness  in  thy  rush  with  song, 

Splendour  is  thine  to  sing  into  air,  be  forgotten  ! 

Thou  singest  out,  thou  pushest  thy  song's  way, 

Without  regard  to  the  others  waiting  their  turns, 

(Pity  the  other  birds  and  poets  !) 

What  a  sweet  bit  of  thy  barbarism  ! 

1  know  not  technically  what  thy  song  means : 


TO   A    NIGHTINGALE  II 

I  take  thee  not  only  for  a  bird  but  the  poet. 
Thou  art  a  revolter  against  prosody  ; 
What  a  discoverer  of  the  newest  language  ! 
A  man's  life  and  art  are  disturbed  by  thy  song, 
(What  exhaustion  in  thy  voice, 
What  a  feast  and  sensation  of  thy  life  !) 
When  thou  changest  him  to  become  thy  kin, — 
A  thing  of  simplicity  and  force  ; 
Thy  song  stops,  thou  fliest  away. 
Oh,  can  thy  work  be  done  so  swift  ? 
Didst  thou  see  thy  song's  future  in  him  ? 
Thou  art  suggestion  :  what  a  fragment  of  art ! 


12 


I  AIM  LIKE  A  LEAF 

The  silence  is  broken  :  into  the  nature 

My  soul  sails  out, 
Carrying  the  song  of  life  on  his  brow, 

To  meet  the  flowers  and  birds. 

\Yhen  my  heart  returns  in  the  solitude, 

She  is  very  sad, 
Looking  back  on  the  dead  passions 

Lying  on  Love's  ruin. 

I  am  like  a  leaf 

Hanging  over  hope  and  despair, 
Which  trembles  and  joins 

The  world's  imagination  and  ghost. 


TO  THE  SUNFLOWER 

Thou  burstest  from  mood  : 

How  sad  we  have  to  cling  to  experience ! 

Marvel  of  thy  every  atom  burning  in  life, 

How  fully  thou  livest ! 

Didst  thou  ever  think  to  turn  to  cold  and  shadow  ? 

Passionate  liver  of  sunlight, 

S}'mbol  of  youth  and  pride  ; 

Thou  art  a  lyric  of  thy  soaring  colour  ; 

Thy  voicelessness  of  song  is  action. 

What  absorption  of  thy  life's  meaning, 

Wonder  of  thy  consciousness, — 

Mighty  sense  of  thy  existence  ! 


BY  THE  DAIBUTSU  AT  KAMAKURA 

Above  the  old  songs  turned  to  ashes  and  pain, 

Under  which  Death  enshrouds  the  idols  and  trees  with  mist 

of  sigh, 

(Where  are  Kamakura's  rising  days  and  life  of  old  ?) 
With  heart  heightened  to  hush,  the  Daibutsu  forever  sits  : 
O,  holiness,  holiness  of  triumph  and  voicelessness  ! 
At  times,  the  lone  pilgrims  in  whiteness  of  prayer, 
Called  by  the  sudden  voice  of  shadow,  chanting  the  dream, 
Are  seen  as  the  swallows  upon  the  sadness  of  seas  : 
O  the  ghosts  stirring  the  ruins  of  faith  from  mortal  heart ! 
Leave  not  the  world  and  humanity  to  be  wholly  lost, 
Save  the  idols  and  songs  from  the  centuries'  sigh, 
Build  again  the  house  of  light  on  the  prayer  of  Earth  : 


BY   THE    DA1BUTSU    AT    KAMAKURA  1 5 

Where  is  the  world  with  the   Nirvana  sky  and  thrill  of 
faith  ? 

I  pray  and  again  pray,  "  Naimt  amida  butsu."* 

On   the   ground   the   pale    shadows  of  the  Daibutsu  and 

myself, — 

The  moon  swings  through  the  grey  ness  of  sad  trees  and  eve ; 
With  the  Idol  and  moon  I  here  step  with  my  head  bent : 
We  three  in  the  rapture  of  Eternity  and  silence  1 

*  Adoration  to  Lord  Buddha. 


i6 


SHADOW 

My  song  is  sung,  but  a  moment     .     .     .     .     • 

The  song  of  voice  is  merely  the  body,  (the  body  dies,) 

And  the  real  part  of  the  song,  its  soul,  remains  after  it  is 

sung : 

Yea,  it  remains  in  the  vibration  of  thy  waves  of  heart-sea 
Echoing  still  my  song,  (O  shadow  my  song  threw !) 
In  thy  heart's  thrill  1  see  my  far  truer  and  whiter  soul, 
And  through  my  soul  thou  soarest  out  of  thy  dust  and 

griefs. 

'. Spring  passed, 

(Spring  in  roses  and  birds  is  merely  the  body,) 

And  I  see  the  greater  Spring  (O  soul-shadow  she  left !) 


SHADOW  17 

In  the  Summer  forest,  luminous  in  green  and  dream : 
Oh  to  be  that  Spring  over  the  world's  Summer  valley, 
O  shadow  I  may  cast  in  the  after-age,  O  my  shadow  of 
soull 


i8 


THE  LOTUS 

The  cry  of  wind  in  my  heart, 

My  thought  darkened  by  memory  of  night, 
I  walk  on  the  phantom  road 

Towards  the  sea  of  silence. 

The  lone  lotus  whiter  than  prayer, 

Before  me  rose,  tall  as  a  dream, 
With  the  sunlight  fallen  through  the  clouds, 

The  flower  smiled  the  sorrow  of  Heaven. 

As  a  fire  consumed,  her  beauty  is  clear, 
Each  petal  chanting  the  song  of  star  ; 

Love  and  desire  are  in  her  heart ; 

I  know  she  came  from  the  blessing  of  morn. 


THE   LOTUS  19 

In  her  voice  of  dew  she  says  : 

"  The  gate  of  sorrow  is  Heaven's  gate, 
The  price  of  admittance  is  only  the  tear  ; 

The  fire  of  silence  makes  thy  soul  white." 

O  holy  goddess  of  lotus,  I  bow  down  to  thee, 

Holy  goddess  of  love,  holy  Kwanzeon, 
Queen  of  sorrow  and  of  the  shining  heart, 

Lead  me  to  the  shore  where  waits  the  ship  of  gold  1 


20 


GHOST  OF  ABYSS 

My  dreams  rise  when  the  rain  falls  :  the  sudden  songs 

Flow  about  my  ears  as  the  clouds  in  June  ; 

And  the  footsteps,  lighter  than  the  heart  of  wind, 

Beat,  now  high,  then  low,  before  my  dream- flaming  eyes. 

"  Who  am  I  ?  "  said  I.     "  Ghost  of  abyss,"  a  Voice  replied, 
"  Piling  an  empty  stone  of  song  on  darkness  of  night, 
Dancing  wild  as  a  fire,  only  to  vanish  away." 


SONG  IN  AIR 

Like  a  rainbow, 

All  the  colour,  all  the  music, 

And  all  the  touch, 

She  suddenly  rises 

Over  the  breast  of  shadow  : 

How  the  world  turns  to  a  sou^  1 

She  is  liberation  and  life. 

Hers  is  a  nerve-thrill, 

Not  a  thought  nor  truth ; 

Mystically 

She  breathes  in  and  out 

Art  (let  me  call  it  so)  ; 

And  when  she  more  suddenly  falls, 

What  a  song-lost  world  ! 


THE  FANTASTIC  SNOW-FLAKES 

Bah  !     What  fantastic  snow-flakes,  eh, 
Dancing  merrily,  ha  !  ha  !  ha  ! 
Lo,  their  tiny  feet  raising-  so ! 

Death  is  sweet,  to  be  sure, 
Laughing  they  go  to  death, 
What  delicious  teeth,  ha  !  ha  !  ha  ! 

Suppose  we  die  together,  eh, 

With  the  snow  dying  upon  a  pond  ? 

What  a  fantastic  end,  ha  !  ha !  ha  ! 

What  a  fantastic  end  to  die 

In  the  dying  music  of  ancient  love  ! 

ttehold  the  snow  and  music  die  ! 


THE    FANTASTIC   SNOW-FLAKES  23 

What  a  coward,  ha  !  ha !  ha ! 

Are  you  afraid  to  die,  eh  ? 

Still  you  love  a  little  caprice  of  world  ? 

What  fantastic  snow-flakes,  ha  !  ha  !  ha  1 
To  leave  no  sorrow  and  to  die ! 
Such  a  coward,  you  my  beloved  1 


M.  A.  C. 

She  gathered  sobs  of  Autumn, 

Her  eyes  opened  to  every  shape  of  sorrow 

As  in  the  moment  of  farewell  with  life  : 

Her  life  was  a  black  December  night. 

She  learned  to  spell  the  words  of  tears 

Before  she  was  born,  her  radiant  sad  voice 

Was  like  that  of  a  midnight  star. 

As  the  silent  moonlight  over  a  weary  rose, 

The  darkness  strangely  wrapped  her  thought. 

Her  face  struggled  to  choose  one  saddest  dream 

From  a  thousand  dreams  which  hung  like  clouds. 

She  walked  in  the  night  land  abandoned  by  Light,- 

A  hollow  echoing  the  cry  of  Death 


M.    A.    C.  25 

Where  grey  phantoms  wandered  by. 
There  was  nothing  more  dreadful  unto  her 
Than  speech  of  man  :  she  had  fled  from  it 
As  from  Winter  Storm  ;  she  was  glad  to  die 
As  a  Summer  night  breeze  into  the  golden  bosom  of  the 
moon. 


MEDITATION  ON  A  CHINESE  TEA  CUP 

Fill  me  a  cup  with  the  tea  ancient- browed,  Cathay  in  heart, 
(What  a  forlorn  look  of  the  empty  cup  !) 
And    let    me  dream   the  Confucius  land  of  dragon  and 
dream. 

The  moon  of  very  old  gold  stares  far  down  : 

Art  thou,  Chinese  moon,  wearied  of  wisdom  and  song  ? 

What  an  Autumnal  face  softer  than  a  soft  sigh, 

What  an  oblivion  sweeter  than  a  sweet  death  ! 

Hear  the  whisper  of  ecstasy  and  forgotten  love 

In  Opium's  yellow  smell,  eternal  and  free  ! 

Here  in  the  opium  den,  powerless  are  Time's  teeth, 

And  Vice  sleeps  on  Fancy's  delicious  breast : 


MEDITATION    ON    A    CHINESE   TEA    CUP  27 

See  the  smokers  with  bodies  like  a  fallen  pagoda, 
Putting  their  souls  at  pawn  for  the  whitest  sleep. 
Is  it  the  blast  of  a  rebellion's  cry  ? 
Nay,  a  mandarin  prince  with  a  long  pipe 
VVindily  parades  with  slaves  like  hurrying  leaves, 
With  a  thousand  banners,  with  drums  and  flutes. 
Oh,  I  pray  to  see  again 

A  Chinese  damsel  of  beauty  like  a  far-off  song, 
Shaking  her  shoulders  of  butterfly's  wings, 
Stepping  uncertain  like  the  shiver  of  a  lily's  stem, 
Through  the  adoring  eyes  of  a  tidal  crowd. 

Fill  me  a  cup  with  the  tea  ancient-browed,  Cathay  in  heart, 
(What  a  forlorn  look  of  the  empty  cup  !) 
And  let  me  dream  the    Confucius  land  of  dragon  and 
dream. 


28  MEDITATION    ON    A    CHINESE   TEA    CUP 

Oh,  I  pray  to  hear  again 

A  Chinese  music  sad  like  the  heart  of  a  forest  spirit : 

I'll  cry  like  a  Winter  wind 

Towards  Love  and  '  Far- Beyond.' 


29 

THE  TOET 

The  roses  live  by  eating  of  their  own  beauty  and  then  die : 

He  too  is  fed  on  his  own  poem. 

His    poem  ?      Yea,    his    very  flesh  in   the    grasp    of   the 

moment ! 
What  a  cry  of  the  soul   and  flesh  in  the  grasp  of  the 

moment ! 

(O  Moment  with  the  very  life  of  what  thou  art, 
Thou  who  hast  no  past  hast  no  future, 

Didst  make  thy  life  from  the  death  of  the  moment  before  ?) 
The  roses  live  by  eating  of  their  own  beauty  and  then  die : 
His  song  is  the  funeral  chant  for  his  own  death  of  every 

moment ; 
Through  death,  or  birth,  (he  is  the  poet  of  the  moment  and 

life,) 


30  THE    POET 

Into  the  menace  of  human  life  he  awakes. 
The  roses  live  by  eating  of  their  own  beauty  and  die  : 
His  flesh  and  soul  shall  ruin  themselves  as  the  bones, 
And  float  as  shipwrecked  masts  over  the  greyness  of  waste. 


ZEPHYR 

Zephyr  comes  unaware, 

And  sings  underneath  my  arms  : 
When  it  makes  a  sudden  stop, 

I  will  finish  the  song  of  its  wandering  soul. 

Zephyr  comes  like  a  Beauty 

Underneath  my  arms  smiling,  smiling. 
She  looks  upon  me,  and  says  : 

"  Shall  we  hide  us  from  birds  and  men  under  the 
roses  ?  " 

Zephyr  comes  with  doleful  heart, 

Sighing,  sighing,  underneath  my  arms. 

I  whisper  a  tale  of  a  Life  of  Gold, 
We  fly  into  the  Palace  of  the  Sun. 


FANTASIA 

Bits  of  straw  and  clay  and  woman's  hair, — 

So  shall  be  builded  my  house  : 

Oh  to  lose  the  world  and  gain  a  song ! 

Let  the  clouds  flit  through  the  window  at  the  left ; 

The  dancers  shapeless  in  pain  and  pride, 

From  the  right  dance  in  as  a  tide : 

A  spirit  of  pagan  days,  sick  in  joy, 

That  rose  at  the  sound  of  their  stamping  feet, 

I'll  sing  a  song  that  makes  the  seas  the  hills. 

(Morality  begins,  I  am  afraid,  where  I  stop  my  song.) 

Rags  to  roll  me  in,  pieces  of  dream, 

So  with  my  heart  of  nocturnal  fear  ; 

I  have  choice  of  the  sky  red  in  memory  and  art. 


FANTASIA  33 

Let  the  stars  fall  in  the  garden  rose : 

The  leaves  and  my  souls  in  a  thousand  guises 

Hurry  to  the  ground  to  build  a  grave. 


34 


AT  THE  YUIGAHAMA  SHORE  BY  KAMAKURA 

Into  the  homelessness  of  the  sea  I  awoke  : 
Oh,  my  heart  of  the  wind  and  spray  ! 

I  am  glad  to  be  no-man  to-day 

With  the  laughter  and  dance  of  the  sea-soul. 

Dip  the  song  of  the  sea  and  wind, 

Throw  it  into  my  heart  of  longing  ! 
I  like  to  be  with  the  clan  of  the  waters  and  air  : 

Oh,  my  soul  of  the  sea-soul  and  surge ! 

Roll  in  the  wonder  of  the  heart  and  sea, — 
Oh,  my  joy  of  the  sea-soul  and  flash ! 

Gather  all  the  lights  of  the  wind  and  sea, 
To  guard  against  the  blackest  night. 


35 


AUTUMN  SONG 

The  gold  vision  of  a  bird- wind  sways  on  the  silver  foam  of 

song, 
The    oldest    song    rises    again  on  the  Autumn  heart  of 

dream. 

The  ghost  castle  of  glory  is  built  by  the  sad  magic  of 

Time, 
With  the  last  laughter  of  sorrow,  and  with  the  red  tempest 

of  leaves. 

My  little  soul  born  out  of  the  dews  of  singing  dawn, 
Bids  farewell  to  the  large  seas  of  Life  and  speech. 


THE  ADDRESS  OF  A  WOMAN  TO  HER 
HUSBAND 

Thou  art,  O  great  lord,  like  a  sea 

Stretching  the  bosom  vast  for  forgiveness  : 

Into  thy  bosom  I  peep  with  fear  that  is  woman's  joy. 

With  thee  I  trust  as  with  the  sinking  sun  that  will  rise 

again ; 

Spring  and  Life  are  thy  lights  : 
Around  the  lights  I  cling  like  a  shadow, 
With  my  heart  of  whisper  and  love. 
How  glad  I  am  to  have  myself  lost  in  thy  bliss 
Like  a  firefly  flashing  a  little  lantern 
Into  the  golden  tempest  of  moonbeams  ! 
The  morning  sun  blows  away  a  candle  of  dew  : 
Like  the  dew  I  am  content  in  my  helplessness. 


THE    ADDUESS   OF   A    WOMAN   TO    HER    HUSBAND 

I  stand  against  thy  blinding  white  soul, 

With  sensation  that  only  a  summer  insect  knows : 

I  am  a  mote  in  thy  mighty  radiance. 

Oh,  what  chance  or  Nature  made  thee  so  great ! 

My  daily  task  is  to  recollect  the  sweetness  of  thy  love, 

And  to  find  the  glorious  dawn  of  Life, 

With  fire  in  speech  and  in  kisses  : 

Thy  breath  and  promise  make  my  life  beauteous. 

I   flatter  myself  thinking  that  thou  canst  not  live  without 

me, 

Since  I  am  like  a  moon  unto  thy  diadem  of  night : 
Oh,  tell  me,  is  this  ecstasy  my  real  life  ? 
Are  we  living  in  a  hidden  love  dale 
Without  a  mortal  sky  above, 
But  eternally  dim  with  yearning  in  air, 
Far  away  from  the  road  of  Death? 


38  THE   ADDRESS   OF  A   WOMAN   TO  HER   HUSBAND 

Give  me  thy  wings  of  heart, 

And  we  will  fly  into  the  song  of  beauty, 

And  stare  down  through  the  dreaming  breeze 

Over  the  flowers  red  and  gold, 

With  one  eye  which  is  thine  and  mine. 

Thy  soul,  O  great  lord,  is  like  a  heavenly  gate ; 

Beyond  the  gate  all  the  loves  gather  : 

Against  the  gate  I  place  my  hungry  ears, 

With  my  heart  mortally  ravished  in  desire  : 

The  manna  of  another  happiness  softly  fall 

Over  me,  as  dews  drop  along  a  morning  highway. 

Thy  footsteps  are  ever  stepping  on  to  the  house  of  God  : 

I  follow  after  thy  footsteps  in  prayer. 

I  am  a  bird  fed  by  the  shadows  of  thy  love, 

Singing  the  song  of  nightingale, 

In  the  woodland  of  thy  fancy 


THE    ADDRESS   OF    A    WOMAN    TO    11EK    HUSBAND  39 

Over  the  valley  of  thy  dream  : 

In  song  and  in  thy  face  my  life  would  be  eternal. 

From  thy  face  the  freshest  breath  of  leaves  steals : 

Thou  art  a  pine  tree  upon  the  hill, 

With  the  balmy  song  of  Immortality, 

Changeless  in  Spring  and  in  Winter  ; 

1  am  a  weak  vine  climbing  up  by  thee, 

And  earn  the  bliss  to  meet  with  a  star. 

Thou  art  a  we -co  me  mountain  nest 

Where  I  fly  as  a  midnight  wind 

With  hoary  heart  and  revolting  thought : 

Thou  art  a  river,  and  I  am  a  ripple  in  its  bosom. 

O  great  lord,  let  us  rise  towards  the  west 

To  face  the  departing  sun, — 

West  where  paradise  lies,  (as  I  am  told), 

West,  saintly  region  of  Repose  ! 


4O  THE    ADDRESS    OF    A    WOMAN    TO   HER    HUSBAND 

We  will  lie  down  with  our  sorrowless  hearts 
Open  under  the  sun-set  fires, 
And  send  our  souls  beyond  into  the  space, 
Into  the  repose  and  into  Paradise  : 
And  then  we  will  turn  home  under  the  gathering  night, 
Oh,  how  rich  I  am  with  a  book  of  poems  and  with  thy 
voice  1 


41 

THE  TEMPLE  BELL 

Trembling  in  its  thousand  ages, 

Dark  as  its  faith, 

It  wails,  hunting  me, 

(It's  a  long  time  since  I  lost  my  faith,) 

Up  through  the  silence  with  a  scorn, 

Heavy  but  not  unkind, 

Out  of  the  dusk  of  the  temple  and  night 

Into  my  heart  of  dusk, 

Hushed  after  my  song  of  cities  played, 

Weary  and  grey  in  thought. 

My  heart  replies  to  the  wail  of  the  bell, 

Slow- bosomed  in  sadness  and  faith, 

With  my  memory  rising  from  dusts. 

Namu  aniida  butsu  /     Nainu  amid*  butsu  I 


TO  THE  CICADA 

What  a  sudden  pain  of  ancient  soul, — 

A  tear  that  is  a  voice,  the  voice  that  is  a  tear ! 

What  unforgotten  tragedy  thou  tellest   in   thy   break  of 

heart ! 
Mitt,  min,  min,  min,  minminminminmin  .     .     .     / 

Grey  singer  of  the  forest  with  heart  of  fire, 
Dost  thou  cry  for  the  world,  or  for  my  love  and  life  ? 
Is  thy  monotony  of  voice  the  tragedy  of  my  song  ? 
Min,  min,  win,  min,  minminminminmin  .     .     .    / 

The  soul  that  reads  the  sorrow  of  life  knows  thy  heart : 
Cry  till  the  world  and  life  gain  the  triumph  of  Death  ! 
Let  us  earn  Death  through  the  tragedy  of  Faith  ! 


TO    THE   CICADA  43 


O  singer  of  sad  Faith  and  only  one  song,- 
Cry  out  thy  old  dream  of  life  and  tears  ! 
Min,  win,  min,  min,  minminwinminmin  . 


44 


THE  LADY  OF  UTAMARO'S  ART 

Too  common  to  say  she  is  the  beauty  of  line, 

However,  the  line  old,  spiritualized  into  odour, 

(The  odour  soared  into  an  everlasting  ghost  from  life  and 

death,) 

As  a  gossamer,  the  handiwork  of  dream, 
'Tis  left  free  as  it  flaps  : 

The  lady  of  Utamaro's  Art  is  the  beauty  of  zephyr  flow. 
I  say  again,  the  line  with  the  breath  of  love, 
Enwrapping  my  heart  to  be  a  happy  prey  : 
Sensuous  ?     To  some  so  she  may  appear, 
But  her  sensuousness  divinized  into  the  word  of  love. 
To-day  I  am  with  her  in  silence  of  twilight  eve, 
And  am  afraid  she  may  vanish  into  the  mist. 


45 


THE  BUDDHA  PRIEST  IN  MEDITATION 

He  is  a  style  of  monotony, 

His  religion  is  aloofness, 

Is  there  any  simplicity  more  beautiful  ? 

What  a  grand  leisure  in  his  walk 

On  the  road  of  mystery  : 

Is  there  any  picture  more  real, 

More  permanent  than  he  ? 

He  surrenders  against  faith  : 

He  walks  on  mystery's  road, — that  is  enough, 

He  never  quests  why. 

He  feels  a  touch  beyond  word, 

He  reads  the  silence's  sigh, 

And  prays  before  his  own  soul  and  destiny : 


46  THE   BUDDHA    PRIEST    IN    MEDITATION 

He  is  a  oseudonym  of  the  universal  consciousness, 

A  person  lonesome  from  concentration. 

He  is  possessed  of  Nature's  instinct, 

And  burns  white  as  a  flame ; 

His  morality  and  accident  of  life 

No  longer  exist, 

But  only  the  silence  and  soul  of  prayer. 


IN  THE  INLAND  SEA 

Here  the  waters  of  wine  with  far-off  desires, 

Flere  the  April  breezes  with  purple  flashes  familiar  and  yet 

forgotten, 

Oh,  here  the  twilight  of  the  Inland  Sea, 
1  lere  I  hear  a  song  without  a  word, 
(Is  it  the  song  of  my  flying  soul  ?) 
That's  the  song  of  my  dream  I  dreamed  a  thousand  years 

ago, 
Oh,  my  dream  of  the  fairy  world,  oh,  the  beauty  of  the 

Inland  Sea ! 

I  sail  and  sail  to-day  in  this  fairy  sea, 
(O  my  heart,  hear  the  sailors'  song  of  life !) 
I  sail  leaving  the  welcoming  isles  far  behind, 


48  IN    THE    INLAND   SEA 

(Hear  the  isles  bidding  adieu,  O  my  heart !) 
I  sail  towards  the  chanting  sky. 

O  birds  with  white  souls,  steer  my  soul  with  white  love, 
Here  the  sea  of  my  dream,  Oh,  the   beauty   of  the   Inland 
Seal 


49 


LITTLE  FAIRY 

Little  Fairy, 

Little  Fairy  by  a  hearth, 

Flight  in  thine  eyes, 

Hush  on  thy  feet, 

Shall  I  go  with  thee  up  to  Heaven 

By  the  road  of  the  fire- flame  ? 

Little  Fairy, 

Little  Fairy  by  a  river, 

Dance  in  thy  heart, 

Longing  at  thy  lips, 

Shall  I  go  down  with  thee  to  '  Far- A  way  ' 

Rolling  over  the  singing  bubbles  ? 


LITTLE   FAIRY 

Little  Fairy, 

Little  Fairy  by  a  poppy, 

Dream  in  thy  hair, 

Solitude  under  thy  wings, 

Shall  I  sleep  with  thee  to-night  in  the  golden  cup, 

Under  the  stars  ? 


O  YOSHI  SAN 

With  a  fan,  with  the  little  joy  of  Japan, 

Dance  you  O  Yoshi  San  : 
Your  dress,  red  and  white,  flashes  on 

Like  the  falling  leaves  of  dream. 

Your  odour  of  silver  breast 

Returns  as  from  a  hidden  road, 

Fairy  girl,  your  footsteps 

Are  the  echoes  of  memory  gold  ; 

In  your  dark  eyes  I  read 
My  unfulfilled  desire  of  age: 

With  whispers,  with  a  diamond  heart, 
I  kneel  to  you  like  a  sigh. 


O  YOSHI   SAN 

O  vision  of  love  of  Japan, 
O  my  returning  memory, 

Are  you  not  the  shadow  of  my  soul, 
Speak,  speak,  you  fairy  girl  I 


53 


BIRD  OF  SILENCE 

Older  than  love  and  tears, 

Bird  of  silence  born  before  the  world  and  wind  were  made, 

Lonely  ghost  away  from  laughter  and  life, 

Wing  down,  I  welcome  thee, 

From  the  skies  of  thoughts  and  stars, 

Bird  of  Silence,  mystery's  brother,  as  white 

And  aloof  as  is  mystery, 

Tired  of  humanity  and  of  voice, 

With  thee,  bird  of  Silence,  I  long  to  sail 

Beyond  the  seas  where  Time  and  sorrows  die, 

Bird  of  silence,  dweller  of  eternity  and  space, 

Make  me  live  in  the  thought  before  dawn  was  born, 

I  lost  the  voice  as  a  willow  spray 


54  BIRD  OF   SILENCE 

To  whom  a  thrill  is  its  golden  song, 

As  a  lotus  whose  break  of  cup 

Is  the  sudden  cry  after  aerial  dance. 


55 


MY  SOUL  AND  HARP 

I  have  laid  my  harp  on  the  grass, 

The  clouds  fly. 
My  soul  follows  the  clouds  afar, 

With  the  breezes. 

My  soul  flew,  and  tired,  and  returned  to  the 
The  harp  was  waiting  for  my  touch  of  hands 

Harp,  my  Love,  we  shall  never  part, 
Oh,  never,  again  ! 

My  harp,  we  shall  not  sing  our  grids 

Under  the  moon  : 
Thy  strings  and  my  soul 

Lo  !  are  turning  to  gold. 


56  MY   SOUL   AND    HARP 

Let  me,  O  Moon  and  my  harp,  forget  the  world  and  Life, 

In  the  depth  of  night ! 
(In  yonder  orchard  there 

The  flowers  are  breathing  odours  alone.) 


KYOTO 

Mist-born  Kyoto,  the  city  of  scent  and  prayer, 
Like  a  dream  half-fading,  she  lingers  on  : 
The  oldest  song  of  a  forgotten  pagoda  bell 
Is  the  Kanio  river's  twilight  song. 

The  girls,  half  whisper  and  half  love, 
As  old  as  a  straying  moon  beam, 
Flutter  on  the  streets  gods  built, 
Lightly  carrying  Spring  and  passion. 

"  Stop  a  while  with  me,"  I  said. 
They  turned  their  powdered  necks.     How  delicious  ! 
"  No,  thank  you,  some  other  time,"  they  replied. 
Oh,  such  a  smile  like  the  breath  of  a  rose  ! 


53 

SONG'S  WAY 

Song's  way  is  twilight-still, 

She  comes  riding  on  the  sigh  of  a  reed, 

Her  home  is  the  bosom  of  the  wind  ; 

Fairy  unseen,  with  longing  of  rain, 

Wandering  ghost  of  rain,  sad  and  grey, 

Voiceless  ghost  with  rapture  of  light, 

To  surprise  thee  from  behind  is  her  joy, 

Butterfly  seeking  mystery  to  the  stars, 

Bird  roaming  the  castles  of  clouds, 

To  command  her  I  have  no  power, 

But  here  at  the  twilight  place, 

In  the  twilight  of  the  day, 

I  sit  yearning  for  her  sight  of  wonder  ; 

O  spirit  of  a  thousand  faces  and  thoughts, 

Make  me  live  ajjain  in  the  soner  of  old  ! 


MY  LITTLE  BIRD 

My  little  bird, 

My  bird  born  in  my  Mother's  tears, 

She  flies, 

Stretching  her  wings  so, 

And  from  under  her  wings  she  drops  my  Mother's  message: 

"  Come  home,  Beloved  !  " 

Running  out  from  my  Mother's  bosom, 

My  little  river, 

She  suddenly  stopped  her  song, 

And  looking  up  to  the  sun, 

She  in  her  ripples  flashed  my  Mother's  message : 

"  Beloved,  come  home  !  " 


MY    LITTLE    BIRD 

My  roses, 

My  little  roses  grow  in  my  Mother's  breath, 

They  are  sad  to-day, 

Casting  their  faces  down  ; 

On  their  petals  I  read  my  Mother's  message 

"  Come  home,  Beloved  !  '* 


6i 


OH,  MY  LONG  SORROW 

The  stream  hastes  to  an  Eden's  shady  nook  : 

Its  silvery  steps  are  my  Beauty's  to  meet  with  the  moon. 

Oh,  long  stream ! 

Oh,  my  long  sorrow  ! 

A  breeze  disappears  under  the  willow's  swing  : 

Its  yellow  laughters  are  my  Beauty's  along  a  lily  road. 

Oh,  long  willow's  swing  ! 

Oh,  my  long  sorrow ! 

A  swallow  soars  into  the  soul  of  the  Sun  : 
Its  way  is  my  Beauty's  to  conquer  all  my  heart. 
Oh,  long  swallow's  soar  ! 
Oh,  my  long  sorrow  ! 


62  OH,    MY    LONG   SORROW 

My  tears  fall  over  a  rose  gazing  down  : 

The  breath  of  the  rose  is  my  Beauty's,  half  love,  halt  scorn, 

Oh,  long  silence  of  the  rose  ! 

Oh,  my  long  sorrow  1 


THE  NIGHT  KOTO  PLAYER 

The  thought  of  her  presence  (a  bit  of  flesh  and  love) 
Makes  the  dusk  of  night  the  dusk  of  perfume. 

Sudden  as  a  kiss  her  rings  glow  ; 

Over  the  dusk  strings  her  fingers  flow  as  a  wave. 

O  the  breeze  of  melody  of  her  heart  and  that  of  the  night, 
The  ghost  musical  that  dies  into  the  pang  of  dream  ! 


64 


THE  CALLING  CRY 

Already  in  the  morn  the  Sun  hears  the  cry — 
The  calling  cry  from  the  heart  of  the  West. 
Oh,  my  bird,  are  you  hurrying  back  the  road, 
Hearing  the  calling  cry  from  your  far-'way  nest  ? 

My  gentle  soul,  tarry,  and  sing  the  song,  while  the  flowers 

bloom ! 

(Do  you  hear  the  calling  cry  from  the  path  to  the  Unseen  ?) 
The  flowers  and  Spring  will  soon  be  dead  : 
The  road  for  their  spirits  shall  be  your  road  beyond. 
Will    you    not  journey   together   with    them,    Soul    my 

beloved  ? 
But,  tarry  a  while  ! 


65 

"  SHINNEN  OMEDETO  "  * 

Again" the  First-Day  of  the  year,  again  the   Mother- Earth 

is  glad  : 

Again  she  steps  in  her  white  smile  with  the  Sun — 
Such  a  golden  sun  in  the  depth  of.  the  sky. 
Lo,  he  lifts  and  lifts  his  shield, 
He  flashes  and  flashes  mystery  of  his  sword, 

4 

lie  moves  and  moves  like  a  gold  full  of  Silence  and  Love, 
Me  looks  and  looks,  and  he  loves  and  loves  her,  brave  and 
soft: 

Hail,  hail,  this  is  the  white  First-Day  of  year. 

• 

lie  rises  and  rises  reddened  in  his  passion, 

I  le  reaches  and  reaches  round  her  waist, 

i 
And  holds  and  holds  her  sure  like  a  Man, 

*  I  wish  you  a  happy  new  year.' 


66  "  SHINNEN   OMEDETO  " 

He  kisses  and  kisses,  he  embraces  and  embraces, 

He  nurses  and  nurses,  he  warms  and  warms  in  his  Love, 

And  again  he  kisses,  and   again   he   embraces   her — the 

Mother-Earth. 
Aye,  to-day  the  Sun  is  glad  and  the  Mother-Earth  is  glad 

again : 
Hail,  hail,  white  First-Day  of  the  year  1 


HER  WEAPONS  ARE  A  SMILE  AND  A 
LITTLE  FAN 

Her  weapons  are  a  smile  and  a  little  fan. 

Sayonara,  sayonara  . 

Her  bent  neck  like  that  of  a  stork 

Seeking  a  jewel  of  heart  in  the  ground ! 

Her  wisdom  is  folded  sweet  in  her  bosom. 

Sayonara,  sayonara  .     .     . 

Her  flapping  robe  like  a  cloud 

That  follows  a  lyric  of  butterfly  ! 

Her  song  is  on  her  tips  of  naked  feet. 

Sayonara,  sayonara  .  .  . 

Beat  of  her  wooden  clogs 

Playing  the  unseen  strings  of  love ! 


THE  PASSING  OF  SUMMER 

An  empty  cup  whence  the  light  of  passion  is  drunk  !- 

To-day  a  sad  rumour  passes  through  the  trees, 

A  chill  wind  is  borne  by  the  stream, 

The  waves  shiver  in  pain  ; 

Where  now  the  cicada's  song  long  and  hot  ? 


THE    PILGRIMAGE 
PART  II 


CONTENTS 

PAGE 

My  Heart 69 

An  Autumn  Dirge         -...----.70 

Let  us  March  towards  Manchuria          ------        74 

The  Lotus  Worshipers  ---------        77 

Lines      ------------79 

The  Eastern  Sea 80 

The  Song  of  Songs,  Which  Is  th-  Mikado's         -        ...        82 
To  a  Temple  Garden      ---------85 

The  Moon  Light     -       -  86 

She  says  She  left  Literature  Long  Time  Ago  87 

To  a  Sparrow         ----------89 

Peace 90 

The  Fancy-Butterfly ....91 

Right  and  Left .        .        93 

O  Aki  San 94 

Night 98 

Amid  the  Trees 99 

The  Dawn  on  a  Shore      ---------      100 

The  Falling  Leaves 103 

O  Yen  San 105 

Out  of  a  Kingdom's  Fire 107 

The  Rains 108 

The  Japanese  Night 109 

The  Heike  Singer Ill 

In  Japan  Beyond    ----------       112 

Tragedy 114 

Songs  of  Insects       -----        .-.--      115 


PAGE 

The  Azaleas "6 

Dream  ?     Let  It  he  so,  Pray  ! 117 

Here  I  Hear  a  Footstep  ---------119 

Spring     ------------  121 

To  O  Suzu  Chan  the  Puss 122 

Japan  in  July-        ----------  323 

Evening  ------------  124 

Voices 125 

The  Japanese  Girl 126 

Cradle  Songs  • 

I               127 

II               128 

III             130 

Hauta 

I               131 

II               132 

III              ]?3 

IV              134 

V               135 

VI              13fi 

Hokku 

I                137 

II              13S 

III              139 

IV  ----- 130 

V               HI 

VI            142 


MY  HEART 


Oh  Lord,  is  it  the  reflection  of  my  heart  of  fire  ? 

Is  it,  my  Lord,  the  sunset  flashes  of  the  Western  sky  ? 

Oh  Lord,  is  it  the  echo  of  my  heart  of  unrest  ? 

Is  it,  my  Lord,  the  cry  of  a  sea  breaking  on  the  sand  ? 

Oh  Lord,  is  it  the  voice  of  my  sorrowful  heart  ? 

Is  it,  my  Lord,  the  wail  of  a  wind  seeking  the  road  in  the 

dark? 

Oh  Lord,  is  it  the  dripping  tears  of  my  heart  ? 
Is  it,  my    Lord,   the    rain    carrying    tragedy    from    the 

Heavens  ? 


7o 


AN  AUTUMN  DIRGE* 

I  sat  down,  one  night,  with  a  book, 

(Book,  Night  and  Solitude  with  me)  ; 

A  sudden  voice  towards  the  South  and  West  swept  on. 

It  began  like  the  sigh  of  a  breeze 

Along  the  path  of  poesy  and  Love,  under  the  moon, 

And  it  grew  to  the  stir  of  waves  upon  the  shore : 

Then  what  a  roar  of  breakers  of  the  mad  night, 

Amid  the  wind  and  rains  with  fire  on  tongue  I 

The  voice  burst  on  the  hanging  bell : 

The  pendants  alarmed  to  the  voice. 

It  was  like  the  soldiers'  march, 

Their  eyes  set  upon  the  enemy  and  stars, 

•Varied  somewhat  from  an  old  Chinese  poem 


AN    AUTUMN    DIRGE  71 

With  no  shout  of  orders  in  the  air, 

But  the  stamp  of  the  feet  chanting  Victory. 

"Boy,   what   noise   is   that?"     I   said.     "Go  forth,  and 

see !  " 

"  Sir,  the  moon  shines,  the  '  Silver  River  '  girdles  the  sky: 
Without,  no  sound  of  men  is  heard, 
But  only  the  murmur  of  trees  and  stars." 

"  Autumn  !     Autumn  !  "     I  cried. 

"  Is  it  thus,  O  boy,  that  Autumn  comes? 

Autumn,  the  frost-eyed,  with  ill  heart ! 

Autumn,  season  of  Tragedy  and  mists, 

Autumn,  season  of  ashen  sky  without  clouds, 

(How  my  soul  longs  to  sail  in  Poesy  by  the  clouds  !) 

Autumn,  season  of  blasts  and  tears, 

Autumn,  season  of  emptiness  and  dusts  ! 


72  AN    AUTUMN    DIRGE 

Autumn  comes  close  with  icy  breath, 

And  falls  on  Life  with  a  sudden  shout. 

All  the  gowns  of  green  of  the  forest  and  field 

Will  be  cast  in  the  ruiner  's  face : 

Autumn,  the  executioner,  solemn  in  black, 

With  many-angled  temper  and  swords, 

Autumn,  the  Demon,  with  wings  in  the  air  of  Death  ! 

How  we  loved  Spring-days  of  birth  and  laughter  ! 

How  sad  is  the  hour  when  maturity  passes ! 

The  roses  and  trees  in  grey  season  must  die. 

A  hundred  cares  pain  our  human  hearts, 

Our  desires  mark  wrinkles  on  our  brows, 

And  our  Selves  bend  underneath  the  weight  of  Life. 

How  hastily  our  eyes  are  turned  towards  decay, 

While  our  feet  strive  on  the  Perfection  road, 

Smelling  the  odours  of  flowers  unknown  ! 


AN    AUTUMN    DIRGE  73 

O  boy,  where  is  an  eternal  frame  for  man  ? 

And  who  is  it,  but  himself,  that  steals  his  strength  away  ? 

Tell  me,  O  boy,  how  shall  he  charge 

Against  the  Autumn  blast  fallen  on  his  back  ?  " 

My  innocent  boy  was  asleep  under  the  cricket's  song. 


74 


Mikado,  Emperor  of  Emperors,  fed  by  Love  and  prophecy, 

Now  his  blood  boils  under  the  whirlwind  of  anger, 

He  does  not  sleep  beneath  the  wintry  stars : 

The  splendour  of  his  mind  is  the  stars'  mind. 

Eight  hundred  and  eight  gods  guarding  Japan 

Place  their  Faith  in  his  bosom,  the  Castle  of  Patience. 

His  presence  is  the  presence  of  Holy  Fuji, 

The  steadfastness  of  Japan,  the  glory  of  Asia, 

A  god  born  out  of  the  vastness  of  the  Eastern  Seas. 

He  proclaims  in  a  voice  like  a  step  of  Earthquake  : 
"  How  long  Justice  has  been  lost  from  the  world  ! 
How  long  Light  and  Love  have  been  dead  ! 
Let  here  with  us  be  the  red  Judgement  Day  ! 


LET    US    MARCH   TOWARDS    MANCHURIA  75 

Let  us  build  a  god's  world  as  our  father  built ! 

Behold,  Sun  and  Moon  never  disturb  one  another's  realm ! 

Ijet   us  drive   away    the   nation    invading    a   neighbour's 

domain ! 

Let  us  teach  them  to  respect  another's  right ! 
Let  from  this  day  righteousness  return  again  !  " 
Is  it  the  midnight  voice  of  a  sea  charging  to  the  moon  ? 
Is  it  the  cry  of  a  wind  through  the  woodland  ? 
Nay,  trumpets  calling  all  the  soldiers  to  arms  ! 
Is  it  the  blast  of  a  lightning  piercing  the  sky  ? 
Nay,  soldiers'  sword  answering  the  Mikado's  command ! 
Come,  brothers,  from  the  valleys  of  centuries'  peace, 
Come,  brothers,  from  the  fields  with  grapes  of  prosperity. 
Let  us  stand  to  arms  ! 
Let  us  march  towards  Manchuria  ! 


J6  LET   US   MARCH   TOWARDS   MANCHURIA 

Is  it  the  sob  of  the  mothers  we  leave  behind  ? 

Is  it  our  lovers'  farewell  echoing  in  our  ears  ? 

Nay,  our  swords  impatient  stir  in  the  scabbards  ! 

Hark,  trumpets  blow  calling  to  arms  ! 

Let  us  march  towards  Manchuria  ! 

Let  us  sweep  in  like  a  northern  tempest  1 

Written  at  the  time  of  the  Russo-Japan  War. 


* 


77 


THE  LOTUS  WORSHIPERS 

From  dale  and  hill  the  worshipers  steal 

In  whitest  robes  :  yea,  with  whitest  souls. 

They  sit  around  the  holy  pond,  the  lotus  home, 

Their  finger-  tips  folded  like  the  hushing  lotus-buds 

Thrust  through  the  water  and  twilight,  nun-like, 

And  they  pray  (the  silent  prayer  that  is  higher  than  the 

prayer  of  speech). 

The  stars  and  night  suddenly  cease  their  song, 
The  air  and  birds  begin  to  stir. 
(O  Resurrection,  Resurrection  of  World  and  Life!) 
I,o,  Sun  ascend !     The  lotus  buds  flash  with  hearts  parted, 
With  one  chant  "  Namu,  Amida  !  " 
The  stars  disappear,  nay,  they  fall  in  their  hearts. 


78  THE   LOTUS   WORSHIPERS 

The  worshipers  turn  their  silent  steps  towards  their  homes, 

Learning  the  stars  will  fall  in  their  truthful  souls, 

That  the  road  of  sunlight  is  the  road  of  prayer, 

And  for  Paradise. 

Their  faces  shining  under  the  sun's  blessing  gold, 

They  chant  the  divine  name  along  the  woodland. 


79 

LINES 

The  sun  I  worship, 
Not  for  the  light,  but  for  the  shadows  of  the  trees  he 

draws : 

O  shadows  welcome  like  an  angel's  bower, 
Where  I  build  Summer-day  dreams  ! 
Not  for  her  love,  but  for  the  love's  memory, 
The  woman  I  adore : 

Love  may  die,  but  not  the  memory  eternally  green— 
The  well  where  I  drink  Spring  ecstasy. 
To  a  bird's  song  I  listen, 
Not  for  the  voice,  but  for  the  silence  following  after  the 

song : 

O  Silence  fresh  from  the  bosom  of  voice  ! — 
Melody  from  the  Death-Land  whither  my  face  does  ever 

turn! 


So 


THE  EASTERN  SEA 

I  say  my  farewell  to  the  Western  cities : 

I  will  return  to  the  Eastern  Sea, — 

To  my  isle  kissed  first  ever  by  the  sun,— 

I  will  now  go  to  my  sweetest  home, 

And  lay  there  my  griefs  on  a  mountain's  breast, 

And  give  all  my  songs  to  the  birds,  and  sleep  long. 

A  wind  may  stir  the  forest,  I  may  awake, 

I  will  whistle  my  joy  of  Life  up  to  a  cloud : 

The  life  of  the  cloud  will  be  my  life  there. 

How  tall  my  lover  now  would  be  ! 
5he  was  two  inches  shorter  than  I  long  ago. 
When  mid  the  wistarias  the  moon-lantern  is  lit, 
I  and  she  will  steal  to  measure  our  heights 


THE   EASTERN   SEA  8 1 

By  their  drooping  flowers — drooping  calm  like  peace. 

Shall  she  win,  I  will  pay  her  my  kisses  seven : 

I  will  take  her  seven  kisses  if  I  win  : 

So  all  the  same  the  kisses  shall  be  mine. 

Then  we  will  walk  by  the  idols — the  saint's  and  poet's, 

And  assure  them  that  Life  is  but  Love  : 

With  Love  and  Chrysanthemum  I  will  remain  forever. 

New  York,  1904. 


THE  SONG  OF  SONGS,  WHICH  IS  THE 
MIKADO'S 

Sons  of  the  Island,  whose  dark  eyes  beam  the  stainless 

glory  of  thy  snowy  souls, 
Sing  the  beauty  of  the  goddess'  robes  on  the  trees  ! — Aye, 

sing  the  cherry  blossoms  bloom  ! 
The  April  clouds — flowers  in  disguise — floating  down  from 

the  heaven  above, 
Lodge  on  the  land — that  land  the  Lord  called  forth  in  the 

midst  of  the  waters. 
The  Muse  colours  the  mirror-river  that  runs  as  a  vein  of  the 

earth 
With  the  flowers  of  deep  passion  that  glow  on  the  banks. 


THE    SONG    OF    SONGS,    WHICH    IS    THE    MIKADO'S  83 

Daughters  of  the  Mikado,  who  roam  among  the  cherry 
blooms, — 

Ye   seem  as    maiden     goddesses    love-chattering    in    the 

paradise  of  the  clouds. 
I  love  the  Spring — I  love  the  flowers'  smile  that  enveils  my 

soul — 

I  awaken  from  a  dream  in  the  ensainted  garden  where  gods 
chant  the  perfection  of  the  sorrowless  world. 

The  earth  oft  drinks  the  sweet  wine  of  the  rain  ; 

The  heaven  of  the  Spring  blushes  musing  on  the  flowers' 
beauty. — Oh,  sunset  fires  of  the  western  sky  ! 

Be  thou  rather  out  under  the  sky  than  in  thy  home, — we 
dare  not  in  sleep  lose  the  time  of  the  Spring  of  the 
night ! 

The  flowers  breathe  celestial  odours  that  curl  as  messengers 
unto  the  heaven  ; 


84  THE   SONG   OF   SONGS,    WHICH   IS    THE    MIKADO'S 

The    painter-Moon  brushes  the  ground  with  the  dreamy 

shadows  of  the  cherry  blossoms. 
Behold,   the   Lady,   pale  and  shy  as  willow  leaves,   (O, 

Spirit  of  the  Flower!) 
Smiles,   leaning   on   the  tree,   looking   beyond    over  the 

western  nation  clamouring  in  the  market. 

Written  in  1898. 


TO  A  TEMPLE  GARDEN 

I  that  sit  in  your  haven  am  a  sea-tossed  boat ; 

I  lay  my  body  and  sail  under  your  breath. 

You  that  pitied  me,  you  that  greeted  me, — 

Oh,  what  a  scent  that  is  the  Lord  Buddha's  ! 

Here  the  air,  mist-purple,  is  laden  with  prayer ; 

Ah,  let  me  join  to  your  prayer  and  soul !     (Ah,  Holiness, 

Holiness  !) 

Touch  me,  heal  my  sea-wounded  heart  *, 
Your  hand,  blessed,  is  but  the  Nirvana's. 


86 


THE  MOON  LIGHT 

When  the  moon  falls  upon  the  bosom  of  earth 

With  never  a  spoken  word,  as  in  prayer  the  earth  cries 

The  whitest  of  all  sighs,  (the  two  hearts  in  one  blessing  !) 

And  upon  the  grass  I  alone  stand  and  gaze 

Over  the  world's  beauty  of  ruin,  the  highest. 

O,  wash  me  and  wash  me  again  with  thy  light, 

And  burn  my  body  to  turn  to  a  flame  of  soul ! 

It  is  this  moment  that  I  conquer  the  intervention  of  flesh, 

And  its  rebellions  that  worked  at  unexpected  time, 

I;.'s  not  too  much  to  say  I  am  a  revelation  or  a  wonder, 

\Yinging  as  a  falcon  into  the  breast  of  loveliness  and  air. 


SHE  SAYS  SHE  LEFT  LITERATURE  LONG 
TIME  AGO 

I  used  to  fancy 

In  her  the  deathless  romance  of  Cathay, 

And  declare  she  was  the  beauty  of  endless  time  and  song : 

How  she  laughed  calling  me  too  old-fashioned, 

And  advised  I  should  change  a  bit  of  my  point  of  view. 

(She  never  talked  romance  and  eternity.) 

Her   life, — Oh,   yes,    I  did  not  know  before  its  meaning 

well, — 

Is  that  of  a  water  or  cloud  passing  in  light : 
Change  is  not  her  ruin  but  the  way  of  soaring. 
She  is  a  plea  for  the  evanescences  and  time: 
"  Life  !     Life,  only  Life,"  she  exclaimed. 
J  ler  voice  is  the  response  to  the  deliverance  and  truth ; 


88  SHE   SAYS   SHE   LEFT    LITERATURE   LONG   TIME   AGO 

Her  salvation  lies  in  the  accord  of  music  of  her  soul : 

She  says  she  left  literature  a  long  time  ago. 

What  a  fool  I  was  to  think  of  her  as  a  book  of  old  poems  ! 


TO  A  SPARROW 
Sudden  ghost 

That  danced  out  again  from  the  shadow  and  rest, 
Hunter  of  the  memory  and  colour  of  thy  last  life, 
Dost  thou  find  the  same  humanity,  the  same  dream  ? 
Consecrator  of  every  moment, 
Holder  of  the  genius  for  living, 
Thy  one  moment  might  be  our  ten  years : 
Does  it  tempt,  console  and  frighten  thee  ? 
Ghost  of  nerve, 
If  thy  voice  be  curse, 
It  is  with  all  thy  soul, 
If  it  be  repentance, 
It  is  with  all  thy  body. 
Oh  would  that  I  could  relish  the  same  sensation  as  thou ! 


PEACE 

The  tedious  wheeling  of  night-Eternity  !  The  shadowy 
peace  mantles  the  world  where  Love  and  Dreams 
sleep  in  Infinitude. 

O,  new-born  world  of  richest  fantasy  !  The  land  and  sea, 
moon  and  mortals  wrap  the  Dimness  about  their 
breasts. 

Ah,  the  world  reposes  with  the  mother-Solitude,  under 
whose  wings  the  stars  and  I  harken  to  the  sermon 
of  Silence  1 


THE  FANCY-BUTTERFLY 

And  here  among  the  dandelions  and  pines, 

Where  angels  robed  in  gossamer  sing  the  Life, 

The  butterfly  of  Fancy  I  try  fo  seize, 

(Lo,  her  wing-flashes  silver  and  gold, 

Lo,  her  wing-flashes  red  and  white  !) 

.     .     .     .     the  butterfly  now  before  me,  and  now  behind 

me, 

(Lo,  her  wing-flashes  white  and  red, 
Lo,  her  wing-flashes  gold  and  silver!) 
Why  must  you  mock  me  so,  fancy-butterfly  ? 
Go  from  me  now,  Fancy,  mocking  elf, 
Wearied  of  you  am  I,  and  leave  me  alone, 
I  from  weariness  one  day  shall  die  at  your  feet, 


92  THE   FANCY   BUTTER- FLY 

Go  from  me  now,  Fancy,  let  me  rest ! 
Fancy,  O  cruel  spirit,  were  you  not  once  my  own  ? 
I  have  fed  you  before,  and  you  slept  in  my  heart. 
And  how  strangely  you  flap  and  mock  me  to-day ! 
Were  you  not  to  me  once  anear,  O  Fancy-butterfly  ? 
And  how  far-away  you  are  to-day,  deceiving  soul ! 
(Lo,  her  wing-flashes  silver  and  gold, 
Lo,  her  wing-flashes  red  and  white  1) 


93 


RIGHT  AND  LEFT 

The  mountain  green  at  my  right : 
The  sunlight  yellow  at  my  left : 
The  laughing  winds  pass  between, 

The  river  white  at  my  left : 
The  flowers  red  at  my  right : 
The  laughing  girls  go  between. 

The  clouds  sail  away  at  my  right ; 
The  birds  flap  down  at  my  left : 
The  laughing  moon  appears  between. 

I  turned  left  to  the  dale  of  poem  ; 
I  turned  right  to  the  forest  of  Love  : 
But  I  hurry  Home  by  the  road  between. 


94 


O  AKI  SAN 

0  Aki  San  and  I  walked  into  the  Love  valley, 

1  with  my  face  towards  O  Aki  San, 

0  Aki  San  with  eyes  upon  the  violets  : 

1  never  knew  how  sweet  is  the  air 
Till  we  walked  arm  in  arm. 

We  danced  and  sang  in  the  valley, 

Under  the  wood  of  Life : 

I  am  of  whitest  breath, 

O  Aki  San  of  Spring  beauty. 

Twas  her  achievement  of  grace  that  she 

Thoughtlessly  cast  her  eyelashes  : 

Her  charm  rose  higher  when  she 

Stopped  confused,  not  finding  the  word 


O   AKI   SAN  95 

Fit  for  her  special  thought. 

She  sat  herself  down  beside  me, 

Excused  from  her  dignity, 

And  said  that  I  must  not  think 

About  her  face  alone  : 

I  know  well  that  woman's  humbling 

Is  her  pride  in  disguise. 

Her  content  grew  to  its  full  size 

In  my  praise  over  her  beauty. 

She  showered  on  me  her  rich  smile 

And  bliss  :     I  wondered  how  I 

Could  merit  such  a  luxury. 

My  happy  footsteps  around  her 

Were  those  of  an  ecstatic  priest 

In  wonder,  in  worship,  and  in  prayer : 

My  flesh  grew  in  her  presence. 


0(5  O   AKI   SAN 

I  made  a  heavenly  promise  with  her  eyes  : 

The  beam  of  poem  from  her  heart, 

Which  others  could  not  see, 

Sprang  into  my  own  bosom. 

Her  each  word  was  a  passionate  kiss, 

Her  kiss  made  me  understand  what  she  could  not  speak. 

And  her  eyes  made  her  meaning  simple. 

When  she  softly  folded  her  wings  of  smile, 

Her  beauty  was  melancholy  grey  ; 

When  she  washed  her  hair  in  dewy  fancy, 

Her  laughter  had  a  silvery  sound  : 

Her  touch  of  hand  was  the  touch  of  a  star. 

She  had  innocent  tact  of  love  in  each  wink, 

Mighty  valour  in  her  light  smile. 

God  gathered  the  beauty 

From  flowers  and  seas, 


O   AKI   SAW  97 


And  spread  it  in  her  face  : 

So  every  reflection  of  sea  and  flower 

I  could  trace  in  her  face : 

Her  face  is  an  open  book  I  cannot  all  read, 

But  with  suggestion  I  am  content. 


98 

NIGHT 

I  hail  the  goddess  Night  whose  sacred  melody  weaves 
unheard  flowery  tales  of  a  thousand  years. 

Her's  the  blessed  task  to  bring  peace  to  the  heart  that  has 
parted  from  the  land  of  Content. 

0,  Night, — a  brooding  love-mantle  warming  the  mortal  to 

full-bodied  ease ! 

Behold,  the  gracious  throne  of  the  empress  Moon,  whose 
heaven  beams  messages  unto  me ! 

1,  an  humble  among  mortals,  respond  to  a  lulling  strain  of 

the  velvety  night ! 

O,  idle  Spirit  of  the  Night,  open  the  doors  of  the  star- 
shiines  to  unite  the  earth  with  the  heavens  ! 


99 


AMID  THE  TREES 

I  cease  to  be  caustic  and  savage  amid  the  trees : 
Restlessness  of  satire  is  not  my  property. 

'Tis  enough  miracle  I  roam  to-day  with  the  wind  : 
Tarry  awhile,  though  thou  hast  to  fly,  my  soul  of  poesy! 

Happy  to  be  biographers  of  each  other,  I  and  a  bird  : 
We  read  histories,  but  not  through  song. 

O  mythological  reality  to  have  a  star  from  flower  dead  : 
If  I  ever  die,  seek  a  camellia  intent  1 


100 


THE  DAWN  ON  A  SHORE 

I  dreamed  I  crawled  out  of  darkest  hell, 

Maddened  by  the  torture  of  the  terrible  show, 

With  blood-shotten  eyes  numbed  by  useless  gazing 

Towards  the  bliss  of  the  stars. 

I  crawled  out,  at  last, 

Into  the  breezes  of  dawn, 

Into  the  breezes  whose  taste  I  had  forgotten  long. 

I  trembled,  feeling  the  sudden  stir  of  life  ; 

The  green  odour  of  the  dawn  and  immortality 

Slowly  revived  my  soul. 

Was  there  one  more  dreadful  to  see 

Than  my  face  stained  with  the  blackest  stain, 

Mercilessly  touched  by  the  leprous  breath 


THE    PAWN    ON   A   SHORE  IOI 

Of  the  sufferers  in  the  Pit  ? 

I  turned  my  face  to  the  eastward, 

I  smelled  the  coming  of  morning 

As  the  cattle  smell  the  pool  at  a  distance. 

I  ran  to  receive  the  golden  kiss  of  the  goddess  of  light  and 

of  love 

That  rose  from  the  seas  with  the  throbbing  song  of  glory— 
The  Song  oi  the  Resurrection. 

Two  angels  danced  around  the  sun,  in  white  splendour  : 
The  angel  Joy  in  crimson  dress, 
With  silvery  flashes  from  her  eyes, 
With  flowers  in  her  richest  hair  of  cloud ; 
The  angel  Faith  in  sable  robe, 
With  silent  brow  and  lips  of  infinity. 
My  cheek  suddenly  flowered  frangrant  and  red ; 


IO2  THE   DAWN    OX    A    SHORE 

My  eyes  beamed  with  the  old  glad  dreams, 
The  morning  dews  of  joy  and  love 
Richly  grossed  my  sun-kissed  hair. 


103 


THE  FALLING  LEAVES 

The  sun  (the  reflection  of  my  soul  blown  by  the  wind?) 

Is  very  low  in  the  forest : 

What  a  heart- flame  of  the  sun  and  falling  leaves, 

The  hearts  of  the  last  song  and  beauty, 

The  beauty  of  intensity  and  weariness  in  life  ! 

The  falling  light  of  the  sun  and  silence  flashes  my  picture 

of  heart, — 

The  picture  of  long  ago  drawn  by  M.  G.  ; 
I  can  trace,  under  the  light,  the  secrets  she  hid  with  art  and 

tears, 
I  low  shone,  I  remember  well,  her  finger-nails  when  she  held 

the  brush ! 


IO4  THE   FALLING   LEAVES 

The  beauty  of  the  falling  leaves  and  sun  passes  into  the 

dusk, 
And  my  picture  of  heart  into  the  wilderness  of  sigh. 


IDS 

O  YEN  SAN 

Far  beyond  the  forest  my  Beauty  abides, 

(O  Yen  San  sweet,  O  Yen  San  sweet)  : 

Her  bosom  is  the  nest  of  a  nightingale, 

She  hides  Love  and  Dream  in  her  hair, 

Nine  times  a  day  she  mirrors  her  face  in  a  brook. 

0  Yen  San  sweet !     O  Yen  San  sweet ! 

A  peony  and  O  Yen  San  smile  to  the  cloud  and  me : 
Longing  to  know  how  fares  she, 

1  step  on  the  gossamer  and  poppy  ; 

The  shadow  of  a  fir-tree  is  her  shadow  of  arm  : 
Underneath  the  shadow  I  sing  Love  and  Spring. 
She  seizes  her  guitar  and  strikes  the  strings, 
(O  Yen  San  sweet,  O  Yen  San  sweet)  : 
Her  voices  white  are  the  voices  of  a  crane. 


106  O   YEN   SAN 

Out  of  the  home  of  stars  and  breeze, 

» 

She  cast  her  glance  on  me, 

Like  the  cherry  blossoms  upon  a  Western  dale. 

O  Yen  San  sweet !     O  Yen  San  sweet ! 

With  O  Yen  San  let  me  live, 

And  weave  a  langhter  from  the  Eternity  ! 


OUT  OF  A  KINGDOM'S  FIRE 

The  queen  of  the  dews  and  of  flaming  hope, 
Izanami*  the  mother  ever  thinks  of  the  day 
When,  from  the  bridge  of  love  and  mist, 
Her  first  song  of  glory  sailed  to  the  wind  : 
How  high  jumped  the  sun  and*moon, 
The  wood  and  river  in  brotherhood  joy  1 

Come,  children,  out  of  a  kingdom's  fire, 

Out  of  humanity's  ruin  and  wound, 

Com^  where  your  laugh  shrilled  the  hills, 

And  set  the  waves  dancing  to  the  music  of  a  star. 

Forget  the  fall  of  hope  and  dust  of  love  : 

How  dearer  than  love  is  a  shiver  of  weed, 

How  less  great  human  hope  than  a  twitter  of  bird ! 

*In   the   beginning  of  the    world  the  god  Izanagi  and  the  goddess 
Izanami  stood  on  Amano  Ukihashi  or  Heaven's  Floating  Bridge. 


io8 

THE  RAINS 

The  rains  are  born  as  a  dream 

And  die  as  an  art 

In  a  moment : 

Oh,  phantoms  of  my  hope  and  death  1 

My  soul  dances 

On  their  silver  strings  : 

Alas I'm  dancing 

On  my  own  saddest  song. 

The  flowers,  trees,  mountains  and  world, 

With  the  tears  of  the  rains, 

They  wash  their  lives  and  sins : 

Would  my  soul  soar 

Into  a  newer  life, 

Into  the  depth  ? 


109 


THE  JAPANESE  NIGHT 

The  scented  purple  breezes  of  the  Japanese  night ! 
The  old  moon  like  a  fairy  ship  of  gold 
Softly  through  the  dream  sea  begins  to  rock  on : 
(I  hear  the  unheard  song  of  Beauty  in  the  "moon  ship, 
I  hear  even  the  whisper  of  her  golden  dress.) 
The  hundred  lanterns  burning  in  love  and  prayer, 
Float  on  the  streets  like  haunting  memories. 
The  silvery  music  of  wooden  clogs  of  the  Japanese  girls  ! 
Are  they  not  little  ghosts  out  of  the  bosom  of  ancient  age  ? 
Are  they   returning  to  fulfill  their  thousand  fancies  for- 
gotten ? 

O  the  fancy  world  of  the  Japanese  night 
Bourn  out  of  the  old  love  and  unfulfilled  desires  ! 


IIO  THE   JAPANESE   NIGHT 

The  crying  love  song  of  the  Japanese  night, 

The  shamisen*  music  of  hungry  passion  and  tears  ! 

O  the  long  wail  of  heart  through  the  darkness  and  love! 

*A  certain  guitar  of  three  strings. 


Ill 


THE  HEIKE*  SINGER 
The  griefs  of  emperors  and  warriors  he  sings, 
The  tears  and  love  of  ladies  he  sings, 
With  the  sorrow  and  pride  of  old  Japan  , 
His  song,  that  of  Autumn  eve  sad  and  twilight-grey, 
His  song,  half  a  dream,  half  a  pain, 
Is  to  him  a  prayer  to  put  sorrow  away  ; 
Under  the  shadow  of  centuries  old, 
How  it  totters  like  the  falling  ghosts  of  leaves  : 
His  hope  is  to  lay  memory  down,  be  released. 

*The  Heikc  or  Heike  Monogatari  is  the  old  Japanese  epic  on  the  rise 
and  fall  of  the  Heike  clan. 


112 


IN  JAPAN  BEYOND 

Do  you  not  hear  the  sighing  of  a  willow  in  Japan, 
(In  Japan  beyond,  in  Japan  beyond) 
In  the  voice  of  a  wind  searching  the  Sun  lost, 
For  the  old  faces  with  memory  in  eyes  ? 

Do  you  not  hear  the  sighing  of  a  bamboo  in  Japan, 

(In  Japan  beyond,  in  Japan  beyond) 

In  the  voice  of  a  sea  urging  with  the  night, 

For  the  old  dreams  of  a  twilight  tale  ? 

Do  you  not  hear  the  sighing  of  a  pine  in  Japan 
(In  Japan  beyond,  in  Japan  beyond) 
In  the  voice  of  a  river  in  quest  of  the  Unknown, 
For  the  old  ages  with  gold  in  heart  ? 


IN   JAPAN    BF.YONI)  1 13 

Do  you  not  hear  the  sighing  of  a  reed  in  Japan, 
(In  Japan  beyond,  in  Japan  beyond) 
In  the  voice  of  a  bird  who  long  ago  flew  away, 
For  the  old  peace  with  velvet-sandalled  feet  ? 


TRAGEDY 

The  shadow  of  a  lonely  willow 

Swings 

Ghastly,  ghastly; 

The  roads  are  lost 

In  the  hoary-haired  mists  of  eve  ; 

A  strange  green  light  in  the  distance 

Drifts 

As  a  wandering  fay  ; 

I  hear  a  wild  cry 

In  the  dark  air, 

In  the  stream, 

In  the  stars. 


SONGS  OF  INSECTS 

Under  the  night  of  full  breath, 

Fired  by  the  wine  the  golden  goblet-moon  spilt, 

The  insects  are  mad  in  their  tremour  of  hearts  : 

There  are  a  thousand  voices  of  joy  and  dance, 

But  only  one  song  of  sadness  and  ghost. 

O  passionate  song  of  ones,  I  believe,  returned  to  the  ground, 

Now  awakening  to  the  sad  songs  they  still  left  unsung  ! 

The  spirit  of  a  song  is  never  content  till  it  is  fully  sung : 

O  the  passionate  songs  of  night  and  wounded  heart, 

Are  they  not  the  cry  of  my  soul  of  fever  and  dream  ? 


THE  AZALEAS 

The  flashes  of  azaleas  red  and  white 

Die  and  burn  and  die  again  : 

The  sun  and  clouds  part  and  meet  and  part  again. 

Among  the  clouds  of  azaleas  white  and  red 
I  see  one  flash  never  die  : 
O  the  idyl  beauty  of  her  face! 

Hey  for  my  heart's  delight ! 

Is  she  not  waiting  for  my  love  and  song 

Among  the  clouds  of  azaleas  red  and  white  ? 


DREAM  ?    LET  IT  BE  SO,  PRAY ! 

(Dream?     Let  it  be  so,  pray  !) 

The  flowers 

Laugh  high  laughters, 

Like  a  tide 

Golden  and  deep : 

My  soul  jumps 

To  welcome  them. 

(Dream  ?     Let  it  be  so,  pray !) 

In  such  an  hour, 

Shouting  and  wild, 

I  call  you  to  join  me, 

Fair  spirit, 

And  then  like  a  star, 


DREAM?  LET  IT  BE  so,  PRAY! 

I  am  still, 

With  tny  heart  full  in  joy. 

(Dream  ?     Let  it  be  so,  pray !) 

But  like  a  cloud, 

Free  and  light, 

Forced  by  fancy, 

Knowing  not  where, 

And  yet, 

I  am  glad 

To  wander  away     .... 

(Dream  ?     Let  it  be  so,  pray !) 


119 


HERE  I  HEAR  A  FOOTSTEP 

Here  I  hear  a  footstep, 

Its  voice  is  grey  and  soft: 

Is  it  that  of  a  forgotten  ghost  ? 

So,  a  rain-drop  drops,     .... 

Yes,  one,  two,  three. 

Up  in  the  sky  there  is  a  cloud, 
Its  sight  is  old  as  Earth  : 
Who  says  it  is  the  passing  soul  ? 
At  my  feet  I  see  a  falling  leaf, 
And  the  cloud  is  gone. 

After  the  night  wind  blows 
My  soul  follows  to  seek  Rest : 


I2O  HERE    I    IIEAK    A    FOOTSTEP 

Is  the  wind  my  mother  lost  ? 
Under  the  robe  of  darkness  and  love 
My  heart  throbs  happily  with  bliss. 


121 


SPRING 

In  my  Lover's  eyes  brooding  upon  my  soul, 

In  her  gait  along  the  Love- road,  the  road  to   Heaven  and 

my  heart, 

In  her  smile  blossoming  from  Speechlessness, 
In  her  touch  of  hand,  reviving  my  sleeping  spirit, 
In  the  song  of  the  skylark, 
In  my  poems, 
In  the  breath  of  the  wind, 
In  the  water-bubbles, 
In  the  lily, 
In  the  tree, 
Spring ! 


122 


TO  O  SUZU  CHAN  THE  PUSS 

The  voice  of  a  night  of  hush, 

(Is  it  the  silver  thrill  of  a  star?) 

The  voice  of  the  depth  of  love, 

(Is  it  the  falling  note  of  a  rose's  petal  ?) 

I  hear  in  thy  throat,  O  Suzu  Chan,  the  very  string 

The  musicians  lost  in  the  dusts  of  age ; 

O  the  voice  of  the  fairies  of  dance 

Beckoning  to  the  wind  of  sorrow, 

O  the  voice  of  joy  turned  to  pain  I 


123 


JAPAN  IN  JULY 

The  vision  of  the  sunset  light 
Of  ghostly  white : 

The  day  is  the  twilight  perfume 
Too  full  to  fly  away. 

O,  Japan  in  milky  July, 
What  an  art  of  dream  untold  ! 

You  know,  over  the  blue  and  deep  of  the  seas, 
(O  the  wilderness  of  the  Pacific!) 

Like  a  lantern  in  love-air,  she  sways 
In  pain  that  is  song. 


124 


EVENING 

Evening  with  breezes  that  revive  my  memories, 

Evening,  my  refuge  where  my  sighing  eyes  hurry  to  meet 

with  the  stars ! 
All   the    leaves    and    flowers   drop   their   tired   brows  in 

Evening's  purple  breath. 
Lo !     Adams  and  Eves  turn  their  footsteps  towards  their 

homes. 
I  alone  wait  for  the  Moon's  ascent  longing  to  see  my  own 

shadow, — 
My  one  wooer  in  the  whole  world. 


125 

VOICES 

ist  Spirit. 

Into  the  leaves  the  spring  of  breeze  strays, 
I,  with  the  bell  rung,  seek  down  the  road  of  eve. 

2nd  Spirit. 

The  joy  of  the  sea  is  that  of  Summer  mist, 
The  rise  and  fall  of  tide  is  my  prayer  to  the  heart  of  song. 

3rd  Spirit. 

Weaving  a  dress  of  journey,  I'm  Autumn  spirit, 
My  way  is  where  a  leaf  flies  up  to  the  sky. 

4th  Spirit. 

I  come  down  riding  on  the  Winter  snow, 
Only  to  wait  to  be  saved  by  the  love  of  sunlight. 


126 


THE  JAPANESE  GIRL 

O  the  oldest  yet  youngest  love  of  the  Japanese  girl, 

0  her  fading  yet  lingering  scent  of  heart ! 

Let  me  kiss  her  ivory  cheeks  and  let  me  die, — 

In  the  kiss  I  taste  the  youngest  soul  out  of  the  ages  old, 

1  taste  a  rose  out  of  the  oldest  brown  earth. 
Her  smile  is  the  mist  rising  to  the  morning  sun, 
Her  cry  the  evening  bell  dying  into  the  dusk, 
She  is  a  creation  of  sadness  and  love, — 

A  Spring  lantern  floating  in  the  song. 


I27 


CRADLE  SONGS 

I 

Sleep,  my  love,  your  way  of  dream 
By  the  fireflies  shall  be  lighted, 
That  I  gather  from  the  heart  of  night. 
Your  father  is  off,  good  night, 
To  buy  the  honey  from  the  stars : 
The  city  of  stars  is  away  a  hundred  miles. 
But  by  the  dawn  he  will  return, 
Riding  on  the  horses  of  the  dews, 
For  you,  with  a  drum  as  big  as  the  sun 


128  CRADLE    SONGS 

II 

Shed  no  tear,  no  tear  ! 

Mother  shall  soon  return  from  the  moon,  from  the  moon, 

From  the  home  of  laughter  and  Spring, 

With  a  bag  of  powder  white  for  your  face, 

With  a  pearl-tree  branch  for  your  hair. 

Dry  your  eyes,  dry  your  eyes  ! 

Mother  shall  soon  return  from  under  the  sea,  from  undei 

the  sea, 

From  the  home  of  honey  and  bliss, 
With  a  sack  of  tea  odorouF  with  dews, 
(You  shall  learn  taste  of  tea  next  to  Love,) 
Which  mother  will  steep  in  the  purple  haze,  under  a  cherry 

tree, 


CKADLE   SONGS  129 

By  a  singing  river, 

And  she  will  teach  you  first  steps  under  the  bluest  sky. 

Shed  no  tear,  dry  your  eyes  I 


130  CRADLE   SONGS 

III 

The  flowers  are  nodding 

Above  your  head ; 

The  flowers  are  made  with  sorrows  seven, 

And  laughters  three  which  are  the  best. 

The  sorrows  seven  your  mother  keeps, 
(Mother's  way  is  that  of  pain), 
But  the  laughters  three  make  you  fair  and  gay, 
I  rock  you,  fairy  boat  on  the  tide  of  love. 

Sleep,  my  own,  till  the  bell  of  dusk 
Bring  the  stars  laden  with  a  dream  ; 
With  that  dream  you  shall  awake 
Between  the  laughters  and  song. 


HAUTA* 


His  haori\ 
She  hid, 
His  sleeves 

She  held. 

\ 

"  Must  you  go,  my  lord,** 

Says  she. 

From  the  lattice  window 

She  slid 

The  si; oft  si  ight, 

And  she  cries : 

"  Don't  you  see  the  snow  ? 

*Japanese  popular  song. 
fOver-coat. 


HAUTA 
II 

After  parting  from  you 
I  come  in  the  forest  of  pine, 
After  parting  from  you, 
I  pass  by  the  road  of  stars : 
Oh,  dews  on  the  leaves, 
Oh,  tears  on  my  sleeves  ! 
Are  they  stars  on  the  grass  ? 
Are  they  my  tears  that  fall  ? 

I'm  a  night  dew,  beloved, 

While  you  are  the  star  : 

The  more  you  be  wet, 

The  more  your  loveliness  will  grow  ; 

The  more  you  be  sad, 

The  more  your  love  will  shine. 


HAUTA 
III 

Is  it  wrong  to  love  you  so  ? 

O  lord,  pity  my  heart  that  only  knows  to  cry ! 

Even  a  bird  hurries  to  build  her  nest : 

Won't  you  be  a  plum  tree  for  a  nightingale  of  my  heart  ? 

0  my  love,  won't  you  be  so  ? 
Sassa,  yoiwa  na  ! 

• 
'Tis  for  you  that  I  sail  on  a  sea  of  love, 

Sassa,  yoiwa  na, 

The  sea  may  be  forty  five  miles  wide, 

Sassa,  yoiwa  na, 

1  sail  on  the  sea  for  love,  my  lord; 
Is  it  wrong  to  love  you  so  ? 
Sassa,  yoiwa  na  I 


134  HAUTA 

IV 

Did  O  Kin  San  marry  ? 

Not  O  Shin  San  yet  ? 

O  Ren  San  goes  willy-willy  after  every  wind^that  blows. 

O  Gin  San  is  a  flirt, 

She  ever  plays  love  through  the  year. 

Oh,  let  them  be  so  ! 

(Soda,  soda,  hontoni  soda  /) 

Did  the  plum  bloom  ? 

Not  the  cherry  tree  yet  ? 

The  willow  swings  willy-willy  after  every  wind  that  blows 

The  rose  is  a  flirt, 

She  ever  plays  love  through  the  year. 

Oh,  let  them  be  so  1 

(Hontoni  soda,  soda,  soda  /) 


HAUTA  135 


More  than  a  cicada  of  song 

The  songless  firefly  burns  his  own  heart. 

Sassa,  yoiya  na  ! 

Why  in  the  world  did  I  tell  my  love 

To  a  lord  who  knows  not  love  ? 

Sassa,  yoiya  na, 

Three  streaks  of  smoke  I  am,  my  lord, 

From  the  Asama  mountain  high, 

Only  rising  to  turn  to  a  cloud. 

(Oh,  I  would  fall  as  the  rain,  my  lord  !) 

Sassa,  yoiya  na  I 


136 


HAUTA 


VI 

The  dew  says  she  slept  with  the  firefly  ; 
The  firefly  says  he  never  slept  with  the  dew. 

She  says  yes,  he  says  no, 
He  says  no,  she  says  yes. 

Ifa,  ha,  ha,  the  glow  of  the  firefly  betrays 
The  secret  of  his  heart,  yoiya  sa,  ha,  kat  ha  / 


137 


HOKKU* 


Where  the  flowers  sleep, 

Thank  God !   I  shall  sleep,  to-night. 

Oh,  come,  butterfly ! 


*"  Hokku  "  (seventcen-syllable  poem)  in  Japanese  mind  might  be 
compared  with  a  tiny  star,  I  dare  say,  carrying  the  whole  sky  at  its  back. 
It  is  like  a  slightly-open  door,  where  you  may  steal  into  the  realm  of 
poesy.  It  is  simply  a  guiding  lamp.  Its  value  depends  on  how  much  it 
suggests.  The  Hokku  poet's  chief  aim  is  to  impress  the  reader  with  the 
high  atmosphere  in  which  he  is  living.  Herewith  I  present  you  some  of 
my  English  adaptations  of  this  peculiar  form  of  Japanese  poetry. 


138  HOKKU 


II 

Fallen  leaves  !     Nay,  spirits? 
Shall  I  go  downward  with  thee 
'Long  a  stream  of  Fate  ? 


HOKKU 


III 

Lo,  light  and  shadow 
Journey  to  the  home  of  night  • 
Thou  and  I — to  Love  1 


139 


140 


HOKKU 


IV 

My  Love's  lengthened  hair 
Swings  o'er  me  from  Heaven's  gate 
Lo,  Evening's  shadow ! 


HOKKU  I41 


Waking  or  sleeping  ? 

O  "  No- More  "  older  than  world  I 

Be  'way,  earthly  care  I 


142  HOKKU 


VI 

Speak  not  'gain,  O  Voice  ! 
The  Silence  washes  off  sins : 
Come  not  'gain,  O  Light! 


APPENDIX 


THE  POETRY  OF  YONE  NOQUCHT 

(From  the  Fortnightly  Review,  September,  1910) 

So-SHT,  a  Chinese  philosopher,  dreamed  that  he  was  a  butterfly,  and, 
in  the  mement  of  waking,  asked  himself:  "Are  you  So-shi  who  has 
dreamed  that  lie  was  a  butterfly,  or  are  you  a  butterfly  who  is  dreaming 
that  he  is  So-shi?"  That  question  is  continually  repeated  in  the  works 
of  Yone  Noguchi,  who  seems,  indeed,  to  have  the  freedom  of  two  worlds, 
and  to  find  reality  as  often  in  one  as  in  the  other.  Noguchi  i.s  for  ever  in 
doubt  of  his  own  existence,  suspicious  of  appearances,  and  searching  for 
tlie  reality  in  things  beyond  touch  or  description.  "My  soul,"  he 
writes : — 

>! y      in    lifca     i  ii  iiy  winged  fly,  roams  about  the  sailings-walled  body,   hunting  for  * 

to  fly  out. 

Lo,  sud'ieiily,  an  :ns|>ired  bird  flies  upright  into  the  atom-eyed  sky! 
Ala-:,  his  reflection  .sink*  i.u-  <mwn  in:ci  the  mil   1       li.:u.oni  ol' the  niirrory  rivulet! 
Is  ihis  world  the  solid  being?— or  a  ^Indowy  uotli 
Is  the  form  that  flies  up  the  real  bird?  or  the  ligure  tu.it  sinks  down? 

And  again  : — 

The  world  is  not  my  residenre  to  the  end  ! 

•lie  inuou  h.is  lost  liLi  way,  harassed  among  the  leaf-fellows  on  the  darkling  hill- 
top! 
I<ti't  there  chance  for  my  flying  out? 

The  world  is  not  too  much  with  this  poet .of  Japan  who  writes  in  our 
language,  and  it  is  interesting  to  compare  this  symbolist  of  a  nation  of 
conscious  symbolists  with  the  few  men  who  in  France  and  England  haw 
turned  an  u;!'>'n:rici'ins  but  -.imost  universal  practice.-  into  a  theory  of  poetry. 
Jint  I  must  not,  in  rnv  i-^re  for  Li.-*  work,  pretensl  that  the  poet  is  the 
immaterial  tluating  fairy  that  he  alniust  seem-;  to  be.  "I  bav  • 
.v.irld,"  ht-  says,  •' ami,  think  mo  as  ntilliii't,', 

Yot  I  feel  cold  on  snow-fulling  day, 
And  I  nippy  on  flower  day." 

Let   ino,  before   saving   more,  set  down   such    facts  as  I  know   am.<n   his 


Yone  Nogachi  was  born  in  Japan  about  1876.  He  was  in  America 
before  he  was  twenty,  and,  in  company  with  a  few  other  Japanese  students, 
Buffered  extreme  poverty,  and  the  starvation  which  those  who  have  not 
tried  it  consider  so  efficacious  a  stimulant  to  the  soul.  He  made  some 
friends  among  American  writers,  and  stayed  for  a  time  with  Joaqnin 
M'ller.  In  1897  he  published  Seen  and  Unseen:  or  Monologues  of  a  Homeless 
Snail,  and  in  the  next  year  The  Voice  of  the  Valley,  a  little  book  inspired 
by  a  stay  in  the  Yosemite.  In  1902  he  came  to  England,  and  lived  with 
Mr.  Yoshio  Markino  (who  had  not  then  realised  himself  and  London  in 
his  water-colours)  in  poor  lodgings  in  the  Brixton  Road.  From  these 
lodgings  he  issued  a  sixteen-page  pamphlet  of  verse  printed  on  brown 
paper,  which  drew  such  notice  that  the  Unicorn  Press  (an  unfortunate 
little  firm  that  publish,  d  some  very  good  books,  some  bad  ones,  and  died) 
produced  a  volume,  called,  like  the  pamphlet,  From  the  Eastern  Sea,  and 
containing,  besides  those  sixteen  pages  of  poetry,  other  verses  from  the 
American  books  and  a  number  of  new  pieces.  The  cover  of  this  edition 
was  designed  by  Mr.  Yoshio  Markino.  I  knew  Noguchi  at  this  time,  and 
often  walked  with  him  along  the  Embankment  in  the  evenings,  or  under 
those  "lamp- light.-  of  w^b-like  streets  bathed  in  the  opiate  mists,"  that  he 
and  Yoshio  Markino  have  used  so  delicately  in  their  several  arts.  I  re- 
member him  as  a  small  man,  though  perhaps  not  noticeably  small  by 
Japanese  standards,  with  black  hair  less  orderly  and  geometrical  in 
growth  th:in  most  Japanese  h.iir,  and  a  t'ace  of  extraordinary  .sfnsitiveness, 
high-browed  but  broadly  set  eyes,  and  a  mouth  like  a  woman's,  like  that 
of  a  woman  controlling  some  almost  tearful  emotion  Even  in  the  handl- 
ing of  a  cigarette,  whose  end  he  stripped  of  its  pap^r  so  that  the  tobacco 
m.ght  serve  in  the  making  of  another  (we  were  almost  penniless  in  those 
days),  there  was  a  delicacy  that  mcide  it  impossible  not  to  reco;rni.-e  that 
he  was  a  man  who  lived  more  finely  than  most.  His  conversatioas  were 
of  p  "-try,  of  tho  principles  of  the  particular  poetry  he  held  that  it  was  his 
to  write,  and  of  the  work^  of  those  English  potts  he  had  read.  "  I  hate 
your  Longfellow,"  hr-  said,  "  and  I  love  your  Keats,"  and  in  contrasting 

2 


the  two  he  was,  perhaps,  defining  to  himself  at  least  one  tendency  of  his 
own. 

He  left  London  in  190:!,  and  went  to  New  York  and  then  to  Japan. 
He  had  some  difficulties  there,  difficulties,  I  believe,  of  misunderstanding 
on  the  part  of  his  own  countrymen.  He  cres-ed  to  the  mainland  and 
travelled  in  China  for  a  year,  and  perhaps  longer.  In  1907  he  published 
The  Summer  Cloiul  in  Tokio,  and,  in  June  last  year,  he  sent  me  a  two- 
volume  book  in  a  blue  cas«  with  small  ivory  fastenings,  printed  by  the 
Valk-y  Press  in  Kamakura.  This  book,  The,  Pilffrinuiye,  has  been  issued  in 
England  by  Mr.  Eikin  Mathews. 

These  five  books  do  not  contain  a  large  body  of  verse,  but  they  con- 
tain verse  whose  interest  for  us  is  not  concentrated  in  the  nationality  of 
the  writer.  The  title  of  the  brown-paper  pamphlet  published  in  the 
Brixton  Road  ii  From  the  Eastern  Sea,  "  by  Yone  Noguchi  (Japanese)"  but 
though  that  word  aroused  a  careless  curiosity,  the  curiosity  was  turned 
into  something  more  valuable  by  qualities  less  incidental.  The  imagery 
of  Noguchi's  verse  is  Japanese  in  feeling,  just  as  the  imagery  in  Synge'a 
plays  is  Irish,  and  that  of  Verlaine's  poetry  French,  but  the  imagery  in 
any  one  of  these  three  cases  would  have  been  worthless  ii' the  man  who 
used  it  had  been  merely  Japanese,  Irish,  or  French,  and  not  a  man  of 
genius  with  the  gift  of  setting  words  free  with  living  breath.  Our  concern 
is  not  with  tlii-  nationality  of  this  writer,  but  with  his  conception  of  the 
poet,  and  with  his  poetry. 

Noguchi  wrote  his  first  book  in  1896,  and  so  had  not  read  Mr.  Arthur 
Syrnons'  The  Symbolist  Movement  in  Literature,  which  was  issued  three  years 
later.  He  would  have  found  there  an  account  of  poets  not  unlike  himself, 
and  the  theory  of  a  poetry  nearer  than  Keats'  to  his  own,  and  further  re- 
moved than  Keats'  from  that  of  the  hated  Longfellow. 

Symons,  writing  of  Vcrlaine,  says :  "  Is  not  his  whole  art  a  delicate 
waiting  upon  moods,  with  tbat  p  rfect  confidence  in  them  as  they  are, 
which  it  is  a  large  part  of  ordinary  education  to  discourage  in  us,  and  .1 
large  part  of  experience  to  repress?  But  to  Verlaine,  happily,  experience 

3 


taught  nothing;  or  rather  it  taught  him  only  to  cling  the  more  closely  to 
those  moods  in  whose  succession  lies  the  more  intimate  part  of  onr 
spiritual  life."  Nogachi  lives  almost  continuously  in  those  moods ;  experi- 
ence with  him  is  momentary  rather  than  cumulative  ;  and  his  aim,  ex- 
pressed more  than  once  in  his  verse,  is  only  to  keep  himself  a  vessel  as 
clear  as  possible  for  the  unsulied  transference  of  those  moments  from  the 
bowl  of  life  to  that  of  art.  It  will  not  be  difficult  to  make  from  his  own 
verses  a  portrait  of  his  ideal  poet,  and,  in  writing  of  a  man  not  yet  very 
widely  known,  I  believe  I  shall  best  be  doing  my  duty  by  him  in  quoting 
his  own  words  as  often  as  I  can.  In  The  Poet  he  says : — 

The  roses  live  by  the  eating  of  their  own  beauty  and  then  die. 
His  song  is  the  funeral  chaut  for  his  own  death  of  every  moment. 

And  again,  of  himself : — 

I  sing  the  song  of  my  heart-strings,  alone  in  the  eternal    muteness,  in  the 
face  of  God. 

And  again : — 

The  God-beloved  man  welcomes,  respects  as  an  honoured  guest,  his  own  soul  and  body 

in  his  solitude. 
Lo!  the  roses  under  the  night  dress  themselves  in  silence,  and  expect  no  mortal  applaud 

— content  with  that  of  their  voiceless  God. 

And  again :  — 

O,  wash  me  and  wash  me  again  with  thy  light, 

And  burn  my  body  to  a  flame  of  soul ! 

It  is  this  moment  that  I  conquer  the  intervention  of  flesh, 

And  its  rebellious  that  worked  in  me  at  unexpected  time. 

It's  not  too  much  to  say  I  am  a  revelation  or  a  wonder, 

Winging  as  a  falcon  into  the  breast  of  loveliness  and  air. 

And  again  :— 

.     .     .    What  a  bird 
Dreama  in  the  moonlight  is  my  dream, 
What  a  rose  sings  is  my  soug. 

"  O,  to  lose  the  world  and  gain  a  song,"  he  cries,  and  then,  "  I  am  glad  to 
be  no-man  to-day,  with  the  laughter  and  dance  of  the  sea  soul."  His 
thoughts  fall  like  leaves  in  autumn  "  on  the  snowy  cheeks  of  his  paper." 
His  is  the  poetry  of  self-abnegation,  of  identification  of  himself  with  the 

4 


world.  His  soul  danws  "  on  the  -ilvor  strings  "  of  the  rain.  ''We,"  he 
sings,  are  "  happy  to  b?  biographers  of  each  other,  I  and  a  bird."  He  flits 
himself  as  a  kite,  to  be  lifted  or  let  fall  by  the  winds  that  do  not  move  at 
all  those  whose  pride  is  in  their  sjge  and  measured  footsteps  on  the 
ground. 

In  the  last  of  his  volumes  there  are  a  few  specimens  of  Japanese 
seventeen-syllabled  verse,  hokku,  and  in  a  note  Xoguchi  writes  that  such  a 
poem  "  in  Japanese  mind,  might  be  compared  with  a  tiny  star,  I  dar. 
carrying  the  whole  sky  at  its  back.  It  is  like  a  slightly  open  door,  where 
you  may  steal  into  the  realm  of  poesy.  Its  value  depends  on  how  much 
it  suggests.  The  Hokku  poet's  chief  aim  is  to  impress  the  reader  with  the 
high  atmosphere  in  which  lie  is  living."  The  Hokku  poet,  like  Xoguchi, 
never  writes  of  the  thing  about  which  he  is  writing.  The  emotions  he 
wi.-h.-s  to  express  are  too  subtle  for  description  in  words,  and  can  only  U> 
written  of  in  tho  spaces  between  the  lines,  just  as  between  the  petals  of  a 
flower  we  may  find  dreams  that  the  flower  has  never  known,  and  sugges- 
tions of  something  less  ponderable  than  the  earth  in  which  it  had  its  roots. 
An  example  of  hokku  poetry  will  illustrate  the  method  of  all  Noguchi'a: — 

Where  the  flowers  sleep, 

Thank  God  !     I  shall  sleep  to-night. 

Oh,  come,  butterfly. 

That  is  valuable  as  a  talisman  rather  than  as  a  picture.  It  is  a  pearl  to  be 
dissolved  in  the  wine  of  a  mood.  Pearls  are  not  wine,  nor  in  themselves 
to  be  thought  of  as  drink,  but  there  is  a  kind  of  magic  in  the  wine  in 
which  they  are  dissolved. 

In  Xoguchi'.s  poems  there  is  the  co-operation  between  silence  and 

'.i  of  whieh  C.irlyle  was  thinking  when  he  wrote: — "InaSyml*>l 

there  is  concealment  and  yet  revelation:  here  therefore  by  Silence  ami 

Speech  acting  together,  comes  a  double  significance.     And  if  both  tin 

h  be  itself  high,  and  the  Silence  fit  and  noble,  how  expressive  will 

their  union  be  !  "     In  many  poems  of  the  French  symbolists  the  Speech  is 

almost  meaningless,   except  in  the  Silei.cj  that  is  coloured  by  its  melody. 


In  Noguchi  both  Speech  and  Silence  are  full  of  a  charm  that  we  can 
scarcely  find  in  life  but  in  fortunate  rare  moods.  He  writes:— 
I  am  stirring  the  wares  of  Reverie  with  my  meaningless  but  wisdom-wreathed  syllable*. 
But  he  is  incapable  of  denying  his  own  charm  to  the  carefully-worded 
accompaniment  of  the  Silence  with  which  he  is  really  concerned.  He  sees 
the  world  with  eyes  too  guileless  not  to  make  it  alive,  even  when  using  it 
as  an  invocation.  He  sees  ideas  too  clearly  not  to  make  them,  even  in  a 
spell,  indepsndently  vivid  for  his  listeners.  For  an  example  of  the  one 
take  this  picture : — 

Alas,  the  mother  cow,  with  matron  eyes,  utters  her  bitter  heart,  kidnapped  of  her  child- 
ren by  the  curling  gossamer  mist ! 

For  an  example  of  the  other,  this  idea  : — 

The  Universe,  too,  lias  .somewhere  its  shadow  ;  but  what  about  my  songs? 
An  there  be  no  shadow,  no  echoing  to  the  end — my  broken-throated  lute  will  never 
:ig>uu  be  made  whole. 

He  is  a  poet  whose  flame  has  been  so  scrupulously  tended  as  to  flicker 
with  the  slightest  breath.  He  is  as  many-mooded  as  the  combinations  be- 
tween sunshine  and  shadow.  His  poetry  actually  is  the  thing  that  has  in- 
duced a  mood  in  him,  trimmed  of  all  that  he  had  had  to  remove  for  him- 
self, and  so  made  into  something  between  nature  and  that  pure  elevation 
of  mind  from  which  Noguchi  feels.  This  quality  of  pale  flame-like  emo- 
tion is  common  to  all  his  poems,  extraordinarily  various  as  they  are. 

Sometimes  he  speaks  with  grandeur,  as  in  these  lines: — 

When  I  am  lost  in  the  deep  body  of  the  mist  on  a  hill, 

The  universe  seeius  built  with  me  as  its  pillar ! 

Am  I  the  God  upon  the  face  of  the  deep,  nay  deepless  deepness  in  the  beginningt 

Sometimes  wistfully  : — 

Alas  !  mv  soul  is  like  a  paper  lantern,  its  paste  wetted  off  under  the  rain. 
my  tuvet  wiU  ti^vnvlcmM  lack  to-tiigf,/  ? 
I/>,  the  snail  at  my  door  stealthily  hides  his  horns. 
Oh,  ptrf  forth  thy  honourable  horns  for  my  sake  '. 
W  here  it  Truth  ?     »  here  is  Li g fit  :• 

Sometimes  questioning : — 


Mr  jiootry  Ix-.-ins  with  the  tireless  son^s  of  the  cricket,  on  the  lean  grey-haired   hill, 
in  sobsr-faeed  evening. 

And  the  next  jia;_'f-  is  Stillness . 

And  what  then,  about  the  next  to  that  ? 

Al:is.  the  God  puts  hi*  BOiTene-OOTerlng  h;:inl  over  it-  si,- 

M'ist  r,  take  off  your  hand  for  <A«  himJili-  *•  rcaiii  '. 

Aski'd  in  vain  :— — 

liow  long  lor  my  meditation  ? 

But  it  is  impossible  with  the  quotation*  permissible  in  an  article  to 
give  an  adequate  presentment  of  a  poet  whose  poems  are  so  separate  that 
a  hundred  of  them  do  not  suffice  for  his  expres-ion.  Noguehi  has,  like 
Verlaine,  escaped  the  wwlom  of  exparieuce ;  his  latest  moods  are  as  sky- 
clear  as  his  first,  different  though  they  are  in  technique  and  in  feeling. 
Eacli  one  of  them  is  a  glint  of  light  from  a  diamond  ;  it  is  impossible,  hut 
in  seeing  innumerable  glints  together,  satisfactorily  to  perceive  the  dia- 
moi.d  itself. 

Nognchi's  technique  is  his  own,  though  it  would  be  possible  to  find  in 
reminiscent  phrases  suggestions  of  influence.  A  man  using  English  words 
with  something  of  the  surprising  daring  of  the  Irish  peasants  on  whose 
talk  Mr.  Syiige  modelled  his  prose,  using  them,  too,  like  a  foreigner  who 
has  fallen  in  love  with  them,  lie  is  able  to  give  them  a  morning  freshness 
newer  and  stranger  than  is  given  them  (though  the  words  of  all  fine 
writers  are  newly  discovered)  by  men  whose  ancestors  have  bandied  tin-in 
about.  Ho  uses  them  in  short  and  long  lines  that,  in  his  later  book-,  learn 
:'tid  more  of  rhythm.  Rhyme  he  has  not  attempted,  and  it  would, 
1  think,  have  hampered  the  butterfly-flash  of  his  verse  from  thought  to 
thought.  In  The  Sun,,,i>r  (.'!<, n-l  many  of  the  poems  of  his  early  boul. 
altered  to  pro*c  simply  by  the  plan  of  their  printing.  The  type  i- 
differently  set  on  the  page  and  they  are  called  prose  poems.  J  do  not 
k'.'-w  -vh-it  l--il  Noguehi  t(.  make  this  experiment,  but  it  proved  that  tin- 
irivjuliir.  In-. .ken  lines  in  which  his  poems  were  originally  published  had 
a  real  power  over  the  effect  the  words  produced.  The  spai-e-.  between  the 
lines  were  a  kind  of  thought  punctuation,  and  the  mind  needed  these  mo- 
ments Ix-iwet  ii  the  little  breathless,  scarcely-worded  sighs  that  make  his 


poems.  In  reading  them  aloud  it  becomes  clear  that  the  ritual  of  the  line- 
spacing  was  more  important  than  that  of  commas  or  full-stops.  Noguchi's 
songs  are  like  bird  flights,  timing  themselves  with  the  pulse  of  the  mind 
that  follows  them.  His  ideal  is  a  poetry  of  pure  suggestion  whose  melody 
shall  be  of  thought,  capricious  and  uncertain  as  the  mind,  but  only  with 
the  mind's  caprice,  the  mind's  uncertainty.  The  following  poem  was 
printed  as  prose  in  The  Summer  Cloud,  and  as  it  stands  here  in  TJie 
Pilgrimage. 

Little  Fairy, 

Little  Faiiy  by  a  hearth, 

Flight  in  thine  eyes, 

Hush  on  thy  feet, 

Khali  I  go  with  thee  up  to  Heaviri 

By  the  road  of  the  fire-flame? 

Little  Fairy, 

Little  Fairy  by  a  river, 

Dance  in  thy  heart, 

Louring  at  thy  lips, 

.Shall  I  go  down  with  thee  to  "  Far-Away," 

Boiling  over  the  singing  bubbles? 

Little  Fairly. 

Little  Fairy  by  a  poppy, 

Dream  iu  thy  hair, 

Solitude  under  thy  wings, 

Shall  I  sleep  with  thee  to-iiight  in  the  golden  cup 

Under  the  stars  ? 

It  is  easy,  in  read  ing  it  aloud,  to  recognise  that  its  form  is  not  accidental, 
but  follows,  breatli  for  breath,  the  movements  of  the  mind. 

But  who  shall  analyse  charm,  or  separate  the  tints  of  the  opal  ?  In- 
writing  of  Noguchi,  T  am  writing  of  something  that  can  only  be  defined 
by  itself.  I  can  only  take  shred  after  shred  from  the  cloak  of  gossamer 
he  has  woven  for  himself,  and  only  hope  in  doing  so  to  persuade  other 
readers  to  buy  his  books  and  find  for  themselves  a  hundred  shreds  as 
beautiful  as  these.  The  frontispiece  to  The  Pilgrimage  is  a  reproduction 
of  a  d rawing  by  Utamaro,  a  thing  of  four  pale  colours  and  a  splash  of 
black,  and  made  as  light  as  wind  by  curves  as  subtle  and  as  indefinable  as- 
those  traced  by  worshipping  stars  round  the  object  of  their  adoration.  I 
had  forgotten  that  it  is  the  picture  of  a  girl,  and  that  fact  is,  indeed,  as 

8 


mmaterial  as  the  titles  of  Nognchi'j  poem*.  In  looking  at  it,  I  forget  not 
only  its  subject,  but  the  book  in  which  it  is,  for  this  art,  of  poet  or  painter, 
Verlaine,  Nognchi,  Ut  imaro,  Whistler,  frees  us,  infecting  us  with  its  own 
freedom,  from  the  wurld  which  is  too  much  witli  u.s,  for  the  exploration 
of  that  other  world  of  dream  which,  unless  we,  too,  are  children,  is  with 
us  so  fitfully,  and  so  seldom. 

Beckoned  by  an  appointed  hand,  unseen  yet  sure,  in  holy  air, 

We  wander  as  a  wind,  silver  and  free, 

With  one  song  in  heart,  we,  the  children  of  prayer. 


Our  song  is  not  of  a  city's  f;ill  ; 
No  laughter  of  a  kingdom  bids  our  feet  wait  ; 
Our  heart  is  away,  with  sun,  wind  and  rain  : 
We,  the  shadowy  roamers  on  the  holy  highway. 


ARTHUR  KASSOME 


A  MARRIAGE  OF  EAST  AND  WEST 

(From  the  Liverpool  Courier) 

The  most  remarkable  phenomenon  in  world-politics  at  present  is,  of 
course,  the  awakening  of  what  we  call  a  Western  spirit  in  the  nations  of 
the  East.  At  least,  that  is  how  it  looks  to  us ;  though  no  doubt  a  Japa- 
nese might  perceive  strong  evidence  of  Eastern  influence  working  in  the 
West.  And  doubtless  it  would  be  nearer  the  truth  to  say  that  what 
is  roally  going  on  is  a  mutual  exchange  of  gifts  between  Eastern  and 
Western  civilisations,  a  mutual  absorption  of  the  qualities  of  each,  a 
drawing  together  of  the  two  main  "  streams  of  tendency  "  in  the  human 
race.  Whether  this  signifies  that  the  East  means  to  conquer  the  WTest,  or 
that  the  West  is  conquering  the  Eist,  is  a  question  that  need  not  bother 
ns  now ;  there  is,  perhaps,  no  reason  for  supposing  it  signifies  either. 
Though  the  process  of  exchange  is  still  only  rudimentary,  we  can  see 
with  tolerable  clearness  the  main  lines  on  which  it  is  likely  to  work. 
The  West,  it  would  seem,  will  export  social  ideas  to  the  East,  and  the 
East  will  provide  the  West  with  the  stimulus  of  her  artistic  ideals.  But 
the  equation  is  to  a  certain  extent  reversible.  Has,  for  example,  the 
patriotism  recently  shown  by  Japan  in  her  Russian  Wrar  had  no  effect  on 
us  in  England  ?  And,  on  the  other  hand,  European  artistic  influence  has 
penetrated  to  the  East.  We  hear  of  Ibsen  and  Shakespeare  being  acted 
in  Japan,  and  the  influence  of  Dutch  draughtsmanship  during  the  early 
period  of  commerce  with  Europe  is  undoubted,  to  say  nothing  of  the 
reported  Japanese  grafts  from  Impressionism,  the  Barbizon  School,  and 
German^  Secessionism.  The  great  master  of  the  colour-print.  Hokusai, 
shows  signs  in  his  work  of  a  feeling  which  may,  without  arrogance,  be 
termed  Western,  thus  demonstrating  that  the  "new  spirit"  of  Japan  is 
not  such  a  sudden  growth  as  many  have  imagined.  Still,  in  the  main,  it 
may  be  said  that  Japan  is  giving  us  her  art  in  exchange  for  some  of 
our  social  organisation  ;  and  possibly  the  bargain  is  in  our  favour. 

10 


But  one  of  the  most  remarkable  things  about  this  process  is  that 
Japan  is  not  merely  sending  us  her  art ;  she  is  also  sending  us  her  artists. 
Is  this  due  to  a  desire  on  her  part  that  we  should  better  understand  her 
spirit  ?  It  seems,  at  any  rate,  very  like  a  conscious  effort  to  proselytise 
the  Aryan  nations  to  the  artistic  faith  which  is  such  a  mighty  factor  in 
Japanese  life;  and,  if  so,  it  is  something  of  which  the  West  is  hardly 
capable.  Lafcadio  Hearu  immersed  himself  in  Japan ;  but  he  did  so  in 
order  to  put  Japan  into  English.  Japan,  however,  has  lately  been 
sending  artists  to  America,  England,  and  France,  who  deliberately  use 
European  form  to  Japanese  ends ;  and  to  these  missionaries  we  owe  some 
extremely  refreshing  work.  And  now  there  comes  before  us  an  even 
more  remarkable  visitor,  a  Japanese  poet  writing  in  English,  using  the 
poetic  capabilities  of  English  words  to  serve  Japanese  poetic  ideals;  and 
he  has  written  out  the  Anglo-Japanese  alliance  a  good  deal  more  beau- 
tifully than  any  politician  could.  This  poet,  Mr.  Yone  Noguchi,  has 
evidently  chosen  a  much  harder  task  than  that  of  his  painting  brethren. 
1  ~:iy  "chosen"  advisedly,  for  there  is  some  grounds  for  believing  that 
graphic  and  poetic  craftsmanship  commonly  go  together  in  Japanese 
artists.  There  is  a  pleasing  story  of  a  young  Japanese  who,  hearing  that 
the  English  language  was  supreme  in  Europe  for  its  poetry,  made  himself 
its  master  in  order  to  pursue  the  business  of  poet  in  England.  When  he 
arrived  here,  however,  he  was  informed  that  the  emoluments  of  the 
poetic  trade  had  considerably  declined  of  recent  years,  and  he  therefore 
at  once  decided  that  he  would  not  be  a  poet,  but  a  painter ;  and  as  a 
painter  he  found  good  success. 

Whether  Mr.  Yone  Noguchi  can  paint  I  cannot  say;  but  if  we 
approach  his  poetry  expecting  to  find  in  it  qualities  similar  to  tho.se  we 
find  in  Japanese  painting,  we  shall  not  be  disappointed.  Mr.  Laurence 
Binyon,  in  his  noble  treatise  on  Eastern  painting,  remarks  tnat  the 
Oriental  artist  is,  in  the  main,  concerned  to  deal,  not  with  the  special 
splendour  of  humanity,  but,  through  types  and  symbols,  with  the  uni- 
versal Ujng  of  which  mankind  is  only  a  part,  thus  owning  the  sovereignty 

II 


of  the  Indian  ideal.  "  Not  the  calory  of  the  naked  human  form,  to 
Western  art  the  noblest  and  most  expressive  of  symbols ;  not  the  proud 
and  conscious  assertion  of  human  personality  ;  but,  instead  of  these,  all 
thoughts  that  lead  us  out  from  ourselves  into  the  universal  life,  hints  of 
the  infinite,  whispers  from  secret  sources — mountains,  waters,  mists,  flower- 
ing trees,  whatever  tells  of  powers  and  presences  mightier  than  ourselves  : 
these  are  the  themes  dwelt  upon,  cherished,  preferred."  This  is  what  we 
find,  too,  in  Mr.  Noguchi's  book  of  poems,  significantly  called  "The 
Pilgrimage  "  We  find  it  not  only  in,  for  instance,  the  definite  form  of 
a  sad  comparison  between  the  roses  (that,  absorbed  in  impc-rsonal  bein:j, 
"live  by  eating  of  their  own  beauty  and  then  die")  and  the  poet,  who 
must  continually  awake  "  into  the  menace  of  human  life ;  "  not  only 
in  such  lines  as  these  from  the  "  Proem :  " — 

Beckoned  by  an  appointed  hand  unseen,  yet  sure,  in  holy  air, 

We  wander  as  a  wind,  silver  and  free, 

With  one  song  in  heart,  we,  the  children  of  prayer. 

This  Buddhistic  sensitiveness  to  the  universal  is  al<o  implicit  through- 
out the  whole  of  Mr.  Noguchi's  poems.  We  need  not  be  surprised,  there- 
fore, to  perceive  that  lie  deliberately  eschews  that  intellectual  content 
which  Western  artistic  ideals  so  strongly  demand,  as  rigorously  as  Japa- 
nese and  Chinese  paintings  eschew  it.  In  its  stead  we  have  a  building  up 
of  moods  by  means  of  sensuous  images  which,  to  a  Western  mind,  is 
something  wonderful.  The  Japanese  poet,  as  he  is  seen  in  this  book,  is 
passionately  absorbed  in  the  exquisite  beauty  of  each  succeeding  moment 
in  earthly  life  ;  but  the  power  which  the  moment  has  over  him  is  derived 
from  the  fact  that  he  perceives  in  its  beauty  a  suggestion,  an  apparition, 
of  the  Eternal.  Lament  for  the  transitoriness  of  earthly  beauty  is  never 
far  from  Mr.  Noguchi's  poetry,  but  the  consolation  of  feeling  the  universal 
behind  all  beauty  is  never  far  off  either.  Again  and  again  the  power  of 
the  moment  over  the  poet  is  reiterated  :  "  Yea,"  says  Mr.  Noguchi,  "his 
very  flesh  in  the  grasp  of  the  moment."  These  songs  of  his  are,  in  fact, 

12 


exquisite  cries  oflyricul  distress  wrung  from  him  by  the  k<H'ii  tl.i-h 
sudden  momentary  beauty. 

I  take  it  that  in  Mr.  Noguchi's  "  Pilgrimage  "  the  English  reader 
may  perceive,  as  plainly  as  is  possible  for  him,  the  manner  and  te< 'hiiiqu.- 
of  Japanese  poetry.  Naturally  much  of  it  will  seem  exceedingly  strange 
to  liiiu,  but  there  is  fascination  in  such  strangeness.  Moreover,  whin  once 
we  have  got  into  the  way  of  Mr.  Noguehi's  song,  we  sh:;ll  perceive  that 
the  innermost  spirit  of  poetry  is  the  same  in  Japan  as  in  England.  The 
garment  of  poetry,  like  the  garment  of  spring,  varies  from  climate  to 
climate.  As  Mr.  Noguchi  charmingly  says,  "Spring  in  roses  and  birds 
is  merely  the  body";  so  pjetry  in  images  and  epithets  is  merely  the 
body.  But  the  moving,  indwelling  soul,  whether  of  poetry  or  of  the 
spring,  is  the  same  here  as  there.  The  obvious  thing  about  Mr.  Noguchi's 
poetry  is  that  it  is  nonprosodic ;  he  avoids  prosody,  indeed,  even  more 
scrupulously  than  Whitman,  who  seems,  nevertheless,  if  we  may  jiidge 
from  some  tricks  of  parenthesis  and  the  like,  to  have  had  some  influence 
over  him.  Whether  this  is  an  individual  characteristic,  or  belongs 
generally  to  Japanese  poetry,  must  be  left  for  more  expert  knowledge; 
but  it  may  be  noted  that  this  poet  praises  the  nightingale  (somewhat 
fantastically)  for  being  "a  revolter  against  prosody."  The  songs,  how- 
ever, are  subtly  rhythmic  in  movement,  and  the  thought  is  always 
arranged  in  denned  form  or  pattern.  To  show  how  strictly  the  thought 
is  p  itterned  sometimes,  the  following  poem  may  be  quoted  ;  it  will  servu 
also  to  show  how  rich  Mr.  Noguchi's  p<>"try  is  in  those  qualities  which 
escape  technical  nomenclature  : — 

MY   HEART. 

Oh  Lori,  is  it  the  reflection  of  my  heart  of  fire? 

Is  it,  my  Lord,  the  sunset  Hashes  of  111  •  Western  sky? 

Oh  Lor. I,  is  it.  the  eeho  of  my  heart  of  unrest  .' 

fs  it,  my  Lord,  tin-  c-iy  of  a  *';i  breaking  on  the  sand? 

Oh  Lord,  is  it  the'  voice  <if  my  -ornnvl'ul  heart? 

I.H  it,  my  Lonl,  the  wail  of  a  wind  s-ekinj;  tho  road  in  the  dark? 

Oh  Lord,  is  it  the  ;lri|>|>iiii;  it -an  uf  my  heart? 

Is  it,  my  Lord,  the  rain  carryiu,{  tragedy  from  I  he  h".u'etis  ? 


But  the  understanding  reader  of  poetry  will  quickly  perceive  that 
the  pivot  of  Mr.  Noguchi's  technique  is  suggestion ;  and  this,  one  gathers, 
5s  true  of  all  Japanese  poetry.  Words  suggest  more  than  they  designate, 
:u:d  with  us  verbal  suggestion,  of  course,  plays  a  vastly  important  part ;  it 
is  the  fragrance  of  our  poetry  But  with  us  the  words  they  are  urged  by 
emotion,  are  ruled  by  reason.  The  Japanese  poet,  however,  wishes  to 
paint  a  mood,  and  to  do  so  he  relies  almost  entirely  on  the  suggestive 
power  of  words.  It  is  the  "aura"  of  words,  their  power  to  call  up 
<:louds  of  imagined  sensuous  or  mental  experience,  that  is  the  first  thing 
the  Jap.inese  poet  considers  in  his  composition.  We  find,  therefore,  that 
several  tricks  of  technique,  rare  with  us,  are  common  in  Mr.  Noguchi's 
poetry.  He  will,  for  instance,  mix  his  sensuous  appeal,  and  give  colour 
to  fragrance,  fragrance  to  sound.  It  is,  indeed,  quite  impossible  to  ignore 
the  importance  he  places  on  suggestion ;  for  even  if  we  missed  it  in  his 
manner,  he  tells  us  of  it  outright  many  times.  He  can  give  the  night- 
ingale no  higher  praise  than  to  say  "  thou  art  suggestion;  "  and  of  "the 
new  art"  (which  presumably  is  Anglo-Japanese  art)  he  say  "suggestion 
is  her  life."  And  it  is  certainly  in  the  highest  degree  remarkable  that  a 
foreigner,  and  an  Oriental  at  that,  should  have  acquired  the  insight  into 
our  language  to  enable  him  to  use  with  such  assured  mastery  the  infinite 
powers  of  suggestion  inherent  in  English  words. 

Can  we  learn  anything  from  Mr.  Noguchi's  poems?  Is  there  any 
aesthetic  "  message  "  in  them  ?  Well,  we  may  learn  from  his  poems  what 
he  himself  learnt  from  the  sunflower: 

Thou  burstest  from  mood  : 

How  sad  we  have  to  cling  to  experience  ! 

Jfiirvel  of  thy  every  atom  burning  in  life. 

How  fully  thou  livest ! 

Uidst  thou  ever  think  to  turn  to  cold  and  shadow  ? 

J'assionate  livor  of  sunlight, 

Symbol  of  youth  and  pride  ; 

Thou  art  a  lyric  of  thy  soaring  colour ; 

Thy  voicelessness  of  song  is  action. 

What  absorption  of  thy  life's  meaning. 

Wonder  of  thy  consciousness 

Mighty  sense  of  thy  existence  ! 

14 


There  is  something  besides  exquisite  poetry  in  that,  the  fine  statement 
of  a  truth  often,  indeed,  partially,  but  seldom  completely,  recognised. 
Not  only  action,  but  the  "  wonder  of  consciousness,"  can  make  one  "  live 
fully  ;  "  and  not  only  that,  but  the  fullest,  most  passionate  life  can  be  in 
silence,  when  silence  Is  "the  voicelcssness  of  song,"  when  the  sense  of 
the  miracle  of  perceiving  life  suddenly  burns  up  the  power  to  express 
it  e?en  in  thought,  when  "absorption  of  lii'e's  meaning"  strikes  one 
"breathless  with  adoration." 

L.  A. 


r> 


YONE  NOGUCHI 

(From  the  Conserrater,  Philadelphia,  July,  1911)    *^ 

Noguchi  is  a  child  of  two  civilizations.  Hearn  got  tired  of  America. 
I  It-  idealized  Japan.  Japan  was  his  new  world.  He  went  there.  He 
married  a  Japanese  woman.  He  had  children.  But  as  time  passed  the 
illusion  which  drew  him  to  Japan  faded.  Then  he  turned  his  eyes  to 
America  again.  He  never  came  back.  But  he  wished  to.  He  was,  in 
fact,  planning  for  it.  He  died  looking  across  the  sea.  Did  Noguchi 
come  to  America  with  the  same  instinct  which  drew  Hearn  to  Japan  ? 
Did  he  go  back  to  Japan  disillu-ioned  ?  But,  whatever  niay  have 
been  the  interior  result,  the  outwar.1  effect  of  Hearn's  residence  in 
Japan  is  seen  in  the  wonder  books  he  left  behind  him.  He  became  a 
mediator.  He  stood  between.  He  connected  East  and  West,  Noguchi 
is  doing  the  same  thing.  He  was  here  too  long  to  ever  get  us  out"  of 
himself  again.  He  can  never  absolutely  recede  iato  his  nativity.  When 
he  writes  he  sounds  both  sides  of  the  globe.  He  everywhere  shows  the 
contending,  and  often  harmonizing,  influences.  Noguchi,  like  Hearn, 
reaches  both  ways.  He  has  a  beautiful,  gentle  genius,  which  shines  at 
epigrams  and  smartness,  but  is  at  home  in  indefinite  atmospheres.  He 
likfs  the  smell  and  taste  and  color  and  tone  of  things  rather  than  their 
philosophy — girls,  flowers,  the  stars,  odors,  a  gentle  voice,  music.  They 
play  their  full  part  in  his  poems.  lie  writes  a  simply,  emotional  English, 
enriched  by  carious  archaisms  which  lend  a  great  charm  to  his  free  lines. 
Noguclii  uses  a  liberated  verse  in  which  he  becomes  necessarily  very 
effective.  I  am  glad  he  does  not  borrow  the  terrible  rhymings  which  so 
disfigure  and  in  fact  destroy  most  of  the  stuff  that  is  called  poetry  in  the 
English  tongue.  He  has  been  very  wi.se  in  knowing  what  to  take  from 
us.  He  has  not  adopted  us  wholesale.  That  is  why  his  internationalism 
has  made  him  strong  rather  than  weak.  That  is  why  he  returned  to  Japan 
better  off  instead  of  worse  off  Our  artists  go  to  Europe  and  they  either 

16 


stay  there  for  good  or  come  buck  Europeanized.  The  original,  initiating 
stuff  is  taken  out  of  them.  They  have  sold  their  birthright  for  a  mess  of 
pottage.  Noguchi  \v;is  u>o  subtle  to  yield  to  the  blandishments  of  our 
occidental  make-believe.  :  Ho  saw  at  once  what  was  worth  while  in  our 
arts  and  then  just  as  keenly  realized  the  dangers  which  attended  an  ap- 
prenticeship like  his  own.  Thank  God  he  got  home  safe.  He  tO(  1: 
best  we  had  to  give  him  and  kept  the  best  he  was  born  with.  You  see 
what  this  lias  meant  as  you  read  these  ardent,  tender,  comradely  and  lover- 
like  poems.  They  are  ua-poiled.  Their  rhythms  are  not  defiled  1  y  a 
sophistical  finesse.  They  are  as  Dimple  as  childhood.  They  are  not 
virile.  They  don't  quite  make  a-  man  feel  like  walking  on  a  stony 
road  forty  miles.  They  rather  make  him  feel  like  dreaming  forty 
hours  in  a  rose  garden.  They  lack  stir  and  pulse.  They  are  more 
competent  for  giving  you  peace  than  for  givng  you  inspiration.  We 
need  both.  Therefore  we  can't  say  one  is  better  than  the  other.  But 
after  working  with  the  West  it's  comfortable  to  loaf  with  the  East.  We 
g!-t  too  much  of  Europe.  Then  Asia  serves  a  turn,  as  Noguchi  got  too 
much  of  Asia  and  was  glad  to  have  Europe  serve  a  turn.  Noguchi's  :trt 
is  the  very  latest  and  the  v  .  Tiny  are  the  same  art.  For  when 

a  man  is  overflowing  with  feeling   he  stops  looking  for  words.     He  finds 

looking  for  him.     In  such  crises  the  spirit  resorts  to  the  speech  of 

its  daily  life — gets  clear  back  to  the  norm.     That's  why  all  literature  of 

the  tirst  class  is  characterized  by  a  certain  crudeness  and  nonchalance  of 

That's  why  the  vocabulary  of  the  masters  is  not  borrowed,  begged 

k-n,  but  earned.     Noguchi's  English  would  not  be  called  brutal ;  not 

at  all.     It  rather  displays  extreme  delicacy,  almost  fragility,  of  texture. 

Y  t  it  feels  and  I  looks  competent  and  uncompromising.     It  is 

weak.     1  don't  know  what  Noguchi  could  do  with  a  storm  a: 
but  I  understand    wlm   he  can  do   with  a  quiet  day.     He  is  sensu 

ive.  His  temperament,  his  style,  his  art,  are  reflective.  All  of  tlu-m 
always.  He  shrinks  from  going  the  limit.  He  tries  for  serenity,  for 
lolling  along,  for  just  enough  wind  in  the  sails  to  steady  the  boat,  for 

n 


not  enough  even  to  rook  the  boat.  There's  an  allurement  in  Noguchi.  To 
one  of  my  moods,  at  least,  he  brings  the  calm  of  the  serene  spaces.  He 
feeds  me  lightly,  as  if  even  to  overfill  my  rice  bowl  would  add  a  fatal 
ounce  or  two  against  our  upper  flights  together.  I  go  contentedly  with 
Noguchi  then.  But  another  instinct  supervenes.  Then  what  am  I  to  do? 
I  say  to  Noguchi :  "  Come  along."  He  shakes  his  he;'.d.  "  No,"  he  says, 
"  leave  me  where  I  am ;  go  and  have  your  fight  out  alone." 

HORACE  TRAUBEL 


18 


PROM   TME  EASTERN   SEA 

Fifth  Edition 

It  has  real  suggestion  and  mystery — 7'Ae  Academy. 

Expressing  itself  in  a  new,  personal  way,  which  seems  to  bring 
some  actual  message  or  fragrance  to  us  from  the  East. — T/te  Satur- 
day J.'eview. 

The  book  well  reproduces  the  spirit  of  the  East,  both  in  its 
meditative  repose  and  its  luxuriant  imagery. — The  Times. 


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